>!■  2<>.  )S 


0t  tfw  Wteohgtoj 

PRINCETON,  N.  J. 


Purchased  by  the  Hamill  Missionary  Fund. 


Division  ! /n/. 


.FoZ 


Section 


VAGABONDING 
DOWN  THE  ANDES 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2016 


\ 


https://archive.org/details/vagabondingdowna00fran_0 


In  the  Monte  Grande , the  “Great  Wilderness’'  of  Bolivia,  the  commander  of  the  first 
garrison  insisted  on  sending  a boy  soldier,  with  an  ancient  and  rusted  Winchester, 
to  “protect”  me  from  the  savages  • 


VAGABONDIN 


DOWN  THE  AND 


BEING  THE  NARRATIVE  OF 
A JOURNEY,  CHIEFLY  AFOOT, 
FROM  PANAMA  TO  BUENOS 
AIRES 


HARRY  A.  FRANCK 

Author  of  “A  Vagabond  Journey  Around  the  World,” 
“Tramping  Through  Mexico,  Guatemala,  and 
Honduras,”  “Four  Months  Afoot  in 
Spain,”  “Zone  Policeman  88,”  etc. 


ILLUSTRATED  WITH  176  UNUSUAL 
PHOTOGRAPHS  BY  THE  AUTHOR, 
WITH  A MAP  SHOWING  THE  ROUTE 


NEW  YORK 
THE  CENTURY  CO. 
1917 


Copyright,  1917,  by 
The  Century  Co. 


Published  September,  1917 


A FOREWORD  OF  WARNING 


A few  years  ago,  when  I began  looking  over  the  map  of  the  world 
again,  I chanced  to  have  just  been  reading  Prescott’s  “ Conquest  of 
Peru,”  and  it  was  natural  that  my  thoughts  should  turn  to  South 
America.  My  only  plan,  at  the  outset,  was  to  follow,  if  possible,  the 
old  military  highway  of  the  Incas  from  Quito  to  Cuzco.  Every  trav- 
eler, however,  knows  the  tendency  of  a journey  to  grow  under  one’s 
feet.  This  one  grew  with  such  tropical  luxuriance  that  before  it 
ended  I had  spent,  not  eight  months,  but  four  full  years,  and  had 
covered  not  merely  the  ancient  Inca  Empire,  but  all  the  ten  republics 
and  three  colonies  of  South  America. 

A considerable  portion  of  this  journey  was  made  on  foot.  The 
reader  may  be  moved  to  ask  why.  First  of  all,  I formed  the  habit 
of  walking  early  in  life,  developing  an  inability  to  depend  on  others 
in  my  movements.  Then,  too,  the  route  lay  through  many  regions  in 
which  no  other  animal  than  man  can  make  his  way  for  extended 
periods.  Moreover,  there  was  the  question  of  caste.  It  is  one  of  the 
drawbacks  of  South  America  that  a white  man  cannot  efface  himself 
and  be  an  unobserved  observer,  as  on  the  highways  of  Europe.  Social 
lines  are  so  sharply  drawn  that  he  who  would  be  received  in  frank 
equality  by  the  peon,  by  the  great  mass  of  the  population,  must  live 
and  travel  much  as  they  do.  Merely  to  ride  a horse  lifts  him  above  the 
communality  and  sets  a certain  barrier,  akin  to  race  prejudice,  between 
him  and  the  foot-going  hordes  among  whom  my  chief  interest  lay. 

At  best  these  lines  of  caste  are  a drag  on  observant  travel  in  South 
America.  The  “ gringo  ” can  never  get  completely  out  of  his  social 
stratum.  His  very  color  betrays  him.  It  is  always  “ Goot  mawning, 
Meestear,”  too  often  with  a silly,  patronizing  smile,  from  the  “ gente 
decente  ” class ; among  the  rest  his  mere  appearance  makes  him  as 
conspicuous  as  a white  man  among  West  Indians.  Never  can  he  be 
an  inconspicuous  part  of  the  crowd,  as  in  Europe.  To  get  in  touch 
with  the  “ common  people  ” requires  actually  living  in  their  huts  and 
tramping  their  roads.  The  dilettante  method  of  approaching  them, 
“ slumming,”  will  not  do.  The  disadvantages  of  the  primitive  means 
of  locomotion  in  wild  regions,  such  as  the  Andes,  are  obvious.  But 


v 


A FOREWORD  OF  WARNING 


the  advantages  of  walking  over  more  ordinary  methods  of  travel  are 
no  less  decided.  Though  the  means  be  more  laborious,  the  mind  is 
far  sharper  for  facts  and  impressions  while  on  foot  than  when  loll- 
ing half  asleep  on  a horse  or  in  a train.  The  mere  pleasure  of  look- 
ing forward  to  his  arrival,  subconsciously  building  up  before  his 
mind’s  eye  a picture  of  his  goal  complete  in  every  detail,  not  to  men- 
tion that  of  looking  back  upon  the  journey  from  the  comfort  of  his  own 
armchair,  is  ample  reward  to  any  true  victim  of  wanderlust.  Thou- 
sands of  men,  supplied  with  all  the  comforts  money  can  buy,  roam  the 
earth  from  top  to  bottom  — and  are  supremely  bored  in  the  process. 
It  is  the  struggle,  the  satisfaction  of  physical  action,  the  accomplish- 
ment of  something  greatly  desired  and  for  a long  time  seemingly  im- 
possible, that  brings  real  pleasure,  that  makes  every  step  forward  a 
satisfaction,  every  little  success  in  the  advance  an  enjoyment.  For 
after  all,  real  travel  is  real  labor.  He  who  journeys  only  so  far  as  he 
can  without  exertion,  who  shirks  the  difficulties,  will  know  no  more  of 
the  real  joy  of  travel  than  he  who  lives  without  toil,  seeking  pleasure 
only  and  finding  but  the  cold,  dead  body  thereof,  without  ever  realizing 
the  joy  of  life  itself. 

As  in  ancient  times,  so  it  is  in  the  Andes  to-day ; distance  cannot 
be  covered  without  fatigue.  On  the  other  hand  there  is  the  com- 
pensation of  knowing  completely  the  country  through  which  one 
passes,  storing  away  in  the  mind  a picture  of  each  long-anticipated 
spot,  indelible  as  long  as  life  lasts.  The  Andean  traveler  will  know 
the  pleasures  as  well  as  the  drawbacks  of  the  journeys  of  earlier, 
more  primitive  days,  the  joy  of  evening  hours,  when  suddenly,  from 
the  summit  of  the  last  toilsome  ascent,  he  discovers,  spread  out  in  its 
smiling  valley  below,  the  peaceful  village  in  which  he  is  to  take  his 
night’s  repose,  or  when  he  perceives  from  afar,  gilded  by  the  rays 
of  the  setting  sun,  the  towers  of  the  famous  city  so  long  sought,— i 
hours  of  a vivid  joy  that  few  experiences  can  equal. 

Thanks  again  to  the  barriers  of  caste,  he  who  would  really  know  the 
masses  of  Latin  America  should  not  only  live  with  them,  but  should 
dress  as  plainly  as  they  do.  It  is  hard  at  best  to  get  into  more  than 
superficial  contact  with  the  South  American  Indian,  and  to  some  ex- 
tent his  traits,  like  his  blood,  run  through  all  classes.  The  upper- 
caste  Latin  American  is  by  nature  a masquerader ; he  treats  a “ dis- 
tinguished stranger  ” as  a real  estate  agent  pilots  a prospective  buyer 
about  the  streets  of  some  “ New  Berlin,”  cleverly  sidestepping  the 
drawbacks ; he  shows  his  real  self  only  when  he  is  not  on  parade,  be- 


vi 


A FOREWORD  OF  WARNING 


fore  he  learns  that  he  is  under  observation,  and  claps  on  the  mask  he 
always  has  instantly  at  hand  when  he  wishes  to  show  “himself”; 
and  he  rates  every  man’s  importance  by  the  height  of  his  collar  and 
the  color  of  his  spats,  cloaking  himself  in  pretense  accordingly.  He 
who  does  not  wish  to  know  the  truth  about  a Latin-American  country 
should  attire  himself  in  a frock-coat,  a silk  hat,  and  appear  with  let- 
ters of  introduction  to  the  “ people  of  importance.”  His  hosts  will 
take  him  in  regal  style  along  two  or  three  of  the  best  streets  and  into 
the  show-places,  will  gild  every  garbage-can  that  is  likely  to  fall  under 
his  august  eye,  and  will  shield  him  from  all  the  unpleasantnesses  of 
life  as  carefully  as  the  guardians  of  the  princess  in  the  fairy-tale. 
Hence  the  mere  lack  of  ostentation,  the  mere  appearance  of  being  one 
of  the  negligible  masses,  goes  far  toward  giving  the  unassigned  wan- 
derer a vast  advantage  in  getting  at  the  unmasked  truth,  in  avoid- 
ing false  impressions,  over  men  of  more  brilliant  mind  and  better  pow- 
ers of  observation. 

My  purpose  in  journeying  through  South  America  was  primarily  to 
study  the  ways  of  the  common  people.  I am  no  more  fond  of  the 
unsavory,  either  in  physical  contact  or  on  the  printed  page,  than  are  the 
rest  of  my  fellow-countrymen.  But  every  occupation  has  its  draw- 
backs. No  traveler  through  interior  South  America  with  whom  I have 
yet  spoken  has  found  conditions  better  than  herein  indicated ; though 
for  some  strange  reason  it  appears  to  be  the  custom  to  shield  readers 
from  this,  to  tell  intimate  facts  only  privately  and  to  falsify  public 
utterances  by  glossing  over  all  the  crudities.  The  fact  is  that  the  man 
who  has  spent  four  years  afield  south  of  the  Rio  Grande,  and  has  come 
back  to  tell  the  tale,  can  only  shake  with  laughter  when  an  exponent  of 
the  “ germ  theory  ” speaks.  Explorers  with  millionaire  fathers-in-law 
tell  us  that  the  out-of-the-way  traveler  to  such  a country  should  take 
with  him  numberless  supplies,  from  sheets  to  after-dinner  coffee.  It 
is  the  best  plan,  for  those  whose  aim  is  to  live  in  comfort  — or  a still 
better  plan  is  to  remain  at  home.  Far  be  it  from  me  to  censure 
the  man  who  journeys  southward  for  other  purposes  for  taking  with 
him  all  the  comforts  he  can  carry  ; but  he  who  seeks  to  know  the  people 
intimately  must  not  merely  tramp  their  trails ; he  must  become,  in 
so  far  as  is  possible,  physically  one  of  them.  We  should  care  little 
about  the  impressions  of  a European  studying  life  in  the  United 
States  who  lived  in  his  own  tent  and  subsisted  on  canned  goods  he 
brought  with  him,  however  much  we  might  admire  his  foresight. 

It  may  be  argued  that  by  following  the  plan  I have  outlined  I saw 

vii 


A FOREWORD  OF  WARNING 


only  the  lower  class  and  do  not  report  conditions  among  the  more 
fortunate  inhabitants.  Yet  after  all,  the  peon,  the  Indian,  the  masses, 
comprise  nine  tenths  of  the  population  of  South  America.  There  are 
fewer  persons  of  pure  European  blood  between  our  southern  boundary 
and  Cape  Horn  than  in  the  state  of  New  York ; and  by  no  means  all  of 
these  live  in  even  comparative  comfort.  The  well-dressed  minority  of 
Latin  America  has  often  had  its  spokesman;  numerically,  and  on  the 
whole,  the  condition  of  these  is  of  as  little  importance  in  the  general 
scheme  of  things  as  are  the  doings  of  our  “ Four  Hundred  ” in  the 
life  of  our  hundred  million.  I have,  therefore,  summed  up  briefly 
the  ways  of  this  small,  if  conspicuous,  class,  and  its  ways  are  so 
monotonously  alike  throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  Latin  Amer- 
ica that  this  lumping  together  is  not  difficult.  The  chief  problem  in 
any  country  is  the  status  of  the  great  mass  of  population,  the  condi- 
tion of  the  common  people,  and  it  is  to  this  that  I have  almost  en- 
tirely confined  myself  in  the  ensuing  pages. 

“Have  you  read  ’s  book  on  Brazintine?”  a noted  French 

traveler  once  asked  me.  “ He  says  all  the  brazintinos  are  immoral 
and  dishonest.  You  and  I,  who  have  been  there,  know  this  is  true. 
But  those  are  things  one  tells  to  a circle  of  friends,  that  one  shares 
over  a pipe  at  the  club,  mais,  enfin,  ga  ne  s’ecrit  pas” ! 

It  is  due,  I suppose,  to  a lack  of  Gallic  finesse  that  I have  never 
been  able  to  grasp  this  point  of  view.  Why  the  plain  truth  should  be 
reserved  for  the  fireside  and  personal  friends,  and  should  be  kept  from 
one’s  friends  of  the  printed  page,  is  beyond  my  fathoming.  At  any 
rate,  I have  made  no  attempt  to  follow  that  plan.  I tried  not  to  ex- 
pect everything  in  South  America  to  be  exactly  as  it  is  in  the  United 
States  — I should,  indeed,  have  considered  that  a misfortune.  After 
all,  I went  south  to  see  the  Latin  American  as  he  is,  not  with  the  hope 
of  finding  him  another  American  merely  speaking  another  language. 
I have  tried  to  judge  him  by  his  own  ideals  and  history,  fully  aware 
that  in  the  latter  he  did  not  have  a “ fair  shake,”  rather  than  by  our 
own.  Yet  the  traveler  cannot  entirely  lay  aside  his  native  point  of 
view ; that  would  imply  that  he  was  not  convinced  of  the  wisdom  of  his 
own  way  of  life,  and  the  question  would  arise,  Why  not  change? 
Neither  the  Latin-American  nor  the  American  point  of  view  is  all 
right  or  all  wrong;  they  are  simply  different.  Because  we  criticize 
does  not  necessarily  mean  that  we  claim  superiority,  though  I am 
reminded  of  the  American  resident  in  South  America  who  asserted  that 
were  he  not  convinced  of  his  superiority  to  his  neighbors,  he  would 

viii 


A FOREWORD  OF  WARNING 


forthwith  tie  a mill-stone  about  his  neck  and  jump  in  where  it  was  deep. 
But  the  traveler  who  does  not  express  his  own  honest  opinions,  “ loses,” 
as  the  Brazilians  say,  “ a splendid  chance  to  keep  silent.”  I have, 
therefore,  set  down  my  real,  heartfelt  impressions.  These  may  be 
false,  even  worthless;  the  reader  has  full  right  to  reject  them  in  toto. 
But  at  least  they  have  the  virtue  of  frankness. 

Moreover,  South  America  has  had  its  fair  share  of  apologists. 
Virtually  every  country  publishes  at  intervals  a luxurious  volume  of 
self-praise  that  resembles  in  its  point  of  view  the  year-book  of  a 
high  school  or  college  class.  Trade  journals  are  constantly  painting 
things  South  American  in  the  rosiest  of  colors.  It  has  been  the  tra- 
ditional policy  of  certain  branches  of  our  government  to  cultivate  Latin- 
American  friendship  by  a myopic  disregard  of  all  the  shadows  in  the 
picture.  In  our  own  capital  there  exists  a criminally  optimistic  so- 
ciety for  the  propagation  of  emasculated  information  concerning  our 
neighbors  to  the  south.  Among  “ distinguished  strangers  ” from  our 
own  land  who  have  visited  Latin  America  there  seems  to  have  been  a 
conspiracy  to  whitewash  everything,  an  agreement  to  have  all  they  see 
or  experience  bathed,  barbered,  and  manicured  before  permitting  it  to 
make  its  bow  to  our  public.  The  enormous  majority  of  descriptions 
of  South  America  resemble  the  original  about  as  much  as  a portrait 
resembles  the  sitter  after  a professional  photographer  has  finished 
with  it. 

I do  not  know  what  the  Latin  American  may  have  been  in  other 
years  — perhaps  he  was  the  splendid  fellow  many  make  him  out.  I 
am  merely  telling,  as  charitably  as  possible,  how  I found  him.  I am 
not  interested  in  winning  or  losing  his  friendship,  in  selling  him 
goods,  or  in  gaining  his  “ moral  support  ” to  our  governmental  activi- 
ties. I am  interested  only  in  giving  as  faithful  a picture  as  possible 
of  my  experiences  with  him.  There  are  good  things,  praiseworthy 
things  in  South  America ; if,  in  the  telling,  these  have  been  over- 
shadowed by  the  less  laudable,  it  is  because  the  latter  do  so  overshadow 
in  point  of  fact. 

Obviously,  the  experiences  of  four  years,  even  in  Latin  America, 
cannot  be  crowded  within  the  covers  of  a volume  or  two.  I have, 
therefore,  confined  myself  within  certain  limits.  History,  for  instance, 
has  been  almost  completely  eliminated.  I have  taken  for  granted  in 
the  reader  a certain  basic  knowledge  of  South  America,  though  in  the 
case  of  many  even  well-educated  Americans  this  seems  to  be  taking 
much  for  granted.  I have  passed  as  briefly  as  possible  over  those 


IX 


A FOREWORD  OF  WARNING 


things  which  are  already  to  be  found  within  the  walls  of  our  libraries, 
confining  myself  so  far  as  possible  to  that  which  I have  personally 
seen  or  experienced.  I have,  however,  dipped  as  freely  into  the  litera- 
ture of  each  country  as  into  the  life  itself,  and  in  the  few  cases  where 
I have  made  use  of  facts  so  acquired,  I have  not  taken  of  my  cramped 
space  to  acknowledge  the  debt  in  words.  For  similar  reasons,  though 
it  may  seem  ingratitude,  I have  not  taken  the  reader’s  time  to  thank 
individuals  by  name  for  personal  kindnesses.  They  were  many ; but 
the  doers  know  that  their  deeds  were  appreciated,  without  thanks 
being  detailed  here ; or  if  they  do  not,  it  is  the  fate  of  those  who  lend 
passing  assistance  to  world-roamers  to  take  their  reward  in  inner  satis- 
faction. / 

The  modern  reader  is  prone  to  tire  quickly  of  mere  description;  but 
nature  is  so  important  a factor  in  the  Andes  that  it  cannot  be  briefly 
passed  over.  Personally  I like  an  occasional  sunset,  like  it  so  much 
that  I sometimes  go  to  the  unrequited  toil  of  attempting  to  paint 
one.  The  reader  who  prefers  his  stage  bare,  as  in  Shakespeare’s  day, 
can  easily  glide  over  those  pages.  If  he  does  without  stage-setting, 
however,  and  relies  only  on  his  imagination,  his  picture  is  apt  to  be 
false,  for  the  imagination  has  very  faulty  materials  from  our  school- 
books and  the  tales  of  wandering  Miinchausens  to  work  upon.  Yet 
after  all,  even  with  all  one’s  effort,  it  is  sad  how  little  of  the  splendid 
scenery,  the  atmosphere,  the  charm  of  it  all  — for  in  spite  of  its  draw- 
backs, South  America  has  charm  — one  can  get  down  on  paper. 

This  was  not  a voyage  of  discovery ; or  rather,  if  there  was  discov- 
ery, it  was  only  of  a different  stratum  of  life,  and  not  of  new  lands. 
My  plan  was  not  so  much  to  find  unexplored  country  in  the  ordinary 
sense,  as  to  go  by  hitherto  unmentioned  paths  through  inhabited  and 
known  regions,  the  out-of-the-way  corners  of  familiar  cities  and  the 
undescribed  gathering-places  of  mankind.  In  that  sense  South 
America  is  still  chiefly  “ unexplored.” 

Lastly,  let  me  give  fair  warning  that  this  is  no  tale  of  adventures. 
I would  gladly  have  had  it  otherwise.  I sought  eagerly  for  experi- 
ences that  would  make  the  story  more  worth  the  telling;  I tried  my 
sincerest  to  get  into  trouble ; all  in  vain.  In  Mexico  I marched  peace- 
fully about  between  two  falling  empires.  In  Guatemala  I strolled  non- 
chalantly among  Estrada  Cabrara’s  band  of  hired  assassins.  In  Hon- 
duras I chatted  with  the  leaders  of  the  latest  revolution.  In  Colombia 
I met  many  cripples  of  the  civil  war  but  recently  ended.  In  Ecuador 
I found  only  peace  and  apathy  in  the  very  streets  through  which  an  ex- 


x 


A FOREWORD  OF  WARNING 


president  and  his  henchman  had  been  dragged  to  death  a few  months 
before.  In  Peru  all  was  love  and  brotherhood  — until  after  I left. 
In  the  Bolivian  Chaco  wild  Indians  wiped  out  a company  of  soldiers 
not  a hundred  miles  from  where  I was  passing  in  placid  unconcern. 
In  the  Paraguayan  capital  I sat  with  the  man  who  not  a year  before 
had  captained  a particularly  bloody  coup  d’etat.  In  Brazil  I passed 
through  two  sections  virtually  in  anarchy,  and  in  one  of  its  state  capi- 
tals watched  a riot  that  came  perilously  near  being  a revolution.  In 
Venezuela  I strolled  serenely  through  the  very  ranks  of  revolters  mere 
days  before  the  leader  and  many  of  his  band  were  killed.  Yet  hardly 
once  did  I knowingly  come  near  personal  violence.  The  fact  is  that 
South  America  is  atrociously  safe.  Dangers  are  mostly  those  of  popu- 
lar novelists,  from  the  pages  of  travelers  who  succumb  to  the  natural 
temptation  to  “ draw  the  long  bow,”  after  the  fashion  of  Marco  Polo. 

It  may  be  that  there  was  a better  way  to  have  told  this  story  than  as 
a day-to-day  narrative.  But  even  at  that,  it  could  not  honestly  have 
escaped  a certain  monotony ; for  monotony  is  ingrained  in  the  fiber 
of  South  America.  Not  to  have  reported  the  journey  chronologically 
would  have  made  for  succinctness,  but  at  the  expense,  perhaps,  of 
truth.  It  may  be  wearisome  to  hear  of  virtually  every  night’s  stop- 
ping-place; yet  as  the  traveler  through  the  interior  must  stop  at  al- 
most every  hut  along  the  way,  the  sum  total  of  these  is  a description 
of  the  whole  country.  If  the  story  appears  sketchy  and  piecemeal,  it 
is  because  I have  denied  myself,  erroneously  perhaps,  even  the  Bar- 
rovian  privilege  of  transposing  or  inventing  enough  to  make  a smoother 
and  more  interesting  story.  A book  of  travel  cannot  have  something 
always  happening;  that  is  the  privilege  of  fiction.  The  novelist  can 
forge  his  materials  to  his  liking ; the  travel-writer  is  very  limited,  even 
in  opportunity  to  amalgamate,  his  material  being  very  hard  and  non- 
plastic. Even  to  transpose  and  combine  incidents  is  often  to  falsify, 
for  what  is  true  in  one  spot  may  never  have  been  so  a hundred  miles 
further  on. 

The  necessity  of  suddenly  abandoning  this  task  for  other  and  more 
important  duties  has  made  it  impossible  to  give  it  final  polish,  to 
eliminate  much  that  should  have  been  eliminated,  and  to  improve 
much  of  what  remains. 

Harry  A.  Franck. 

Plattsburg,  New  York,  August  I,  1917. 


xi 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  Up  to  Bogota  . r.  . . . 3 

II  The  Cloistered  City 22 

III  From  Bogota  Over  the  Quindio  ..........  39 

IV  Along  the  Cauca  Valley 63 

V Down  the  Andes  to  Quito 85 

VI  The  City  of  the  Equator 127 

VII  Down  Volcano  Avenue 167 

VIII  Through  Southern  Ecuador 190 

IX  The  Wilds  of  Northern  Peru 209 

X Approaching  Inca  Land 244 

XI  Drawbacks  of  the  Trail 270 

XII  The  Roof  of  Peru 300 

XIII  Round  About  the  Peruvian  Capital 324 

XIV  Overland  Toward  Cuzco 342 

XV  The  Route  of  the  Conquistadores 392 

XVI  The  City  of  the  Sun 405 

XVII  A Forgotten  City  of  the  Andes 454 

XVIII  The  Collasuyu,  or  “Upper”  Peru 480 

XIX  On  Foot  Across  Tropical  Bolivia 517 

XX  Life  in  the  Bolivian  Wilderness 543 

XXI  Skirting  the  Gran  Chaco 573 

XXII  Southward  Through  Guarani  Land 600 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


FACING 

PAGE 

In  the  Monte  Grande,  the  “Great  Wilderness”  of  Bolivia,  the  commander  of 
the  garrison  insisted  on  sending  a boy  soldier,  with  an  ancient  and  rusted 
Winchester,  to  “protect”  me  from  the  savages  Frontispiece 

One  of  the  wood-burning  steamers  of  the  lower  Magdalena,  on  the  route  to 

Bogotd  ............  4 

Along  the  Magdalena  we  halted  several  times  each  day  for  fuel  ...  4 

Hays  catches  his  first  glimpse  of  the  jungles  of  Colombia  ....  13 

The  stewards  of  the  “ Alicia  ” in  full  uniform . . . . . . .13 

A village  on  the  banks  of  the  Magdalena  . . . . . . .17 

Jiradot ; end  of  the  steamer  line  and  beginning  of  the  railroad  to  Bogotd  . . 17 

A typical  Indian  hut  on  the  outskirts  of  Bogotd  ......  20 

Indian  girls  and  women  are  the  chief  dray-horses  of  the  Colombian  capital  . 20 

Bogotd  and  its  sabana  from  the  summit  of  Guadalupe  ....  28 

The  central  plaza  of  Bogotd  from  the  window  of  our  room  ....  28 

A chola,  or  half-Indian  girl,  of  Bogotd  backed  by  an  outcast  of  the  “gente 

decente  ” class  ...........  32 

A street  of  Bogotd.  The  line  of  flaggings  in  the  center  is  for  the  use  of 

Indians  and  four-footed  burden  bearers  ......  32 

Celebrating  Colombia’s  Independence  Day  (July  20th)  ....  37 

Meanwhile  in  another  square  the  populace  marvels  at  the  feats  of  "maroma 

nacional”  of  an  amateur  circus  ........  37 

A section  of  the  ancient  highway,  built  by  the  Spaniards  more  than  three 

centuries  ago  ...........  44 

Fellow- travelers  at  the  edge  of  the  sabana  of  Bogotd  .....  44 

Approaching  the  Central  Cordillera  of  the  Andes  .....  49 

Hays,  seated  before  the  “Hotel  Mi  Casa”  and  behind  one  of  his  $5  cigars  . 53 

A bit  of  the  road  by  which  we  mounted  to  the  Quindio  pass  over  the  central 

range,  with  forests  of  the  slender  palms  peculiar  to  the  region  . . . 53 

The  first  days  on  the  road ; showing  how  I would  have  traveled  by  choice  . . 60 

On  the  western  side  of  the  Central  Cordillera  the  trail  drops  quickly  down  into 

the  tropics  again  ..........  60 


XV 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


Like  those  of  the  days  of  Shakespeare,  the  theater  of  Cartago  consists  of  a 
stage — of  split  bamboo,  with  a tile  roof — inside  the  patio  of  the  “hotel”  . 

Cartago  watching  our  departure  ........ 

Along  the  Cauca  Valley  .......... 

In  places  the  Cauca  Valley  swarmed  with  locusts  ..... 

Worse  than  the  locusts  .......... 

The  market-place  of  Tulua,  with  the  cross  that  protects  it  against  all  sorts  of 
calamities.  ........... 

A view  of  the  “sacred  city”  of  Buga,  with  the  new  church  erected  in  honor  of 
the  miraculous  Virgin  ......... 

A horseman  of  the  Cauca  in  full  regalia  ....... 

The  scene  of  “Maria,  ” most  famous  of  South  American  novels,  and  once  the 
residence  of  its  author  ......... 

The  home  of  “Maria”;  and  a typical  hacendado  family  of  the  Cauca 

The  market-place  of  Cajibio,  in  the  highlands  of  Popaydn  .... 

Crossing  the  Cauca  River  with  a pack  train  by  one  of  the  typical  “ferries”  of 
the  Andes  ........... 

A village  of  the  mountainous  region  south  of  Popaydn  .... 

Hays,  less  considerable  weight,  and  a fellow-roadster  ..... 

An  Indian  woman  weaving  teque-teque  or  native  cloth,  by  the  same  method  used 
before  the  Conquest  .......... 

Quito  lies  in  a pocket  of  the  Andes,  at  the  foot  of  Pichincha,  more  than  10,000 
feet  above  sea-level  .......... 

A view  of  Quito,  backed  by  the  Panecillo  that  bottles  it  up  on  the  south 

A patio  of  the  Monastery  of  San  Francisco,  one  of  the  eighteen  monasteries 
and  convents  of  Quito,  said  to  be  the  most  extensive  in  the  Western 
Hemisphere  ........... 

The  family  of  “Don  Panchi  to”  with  whom  I lived  in  Quito  .... 

Girls  of  the  “gente  decente”  class  of  Quito,  in  a school  run  by  European  nuns 

Quito  does  not  put  its  faith  in  small  locks  and  keys  ..... 

Ecuadorian  soldiers  before  the  national  “palace”  . . . . . 

A corner  of  Quito — looking  through  a garbage-hole  into  one  of  the  many  ravines 
by  which  the  city  is  broken  up  ....... 

After  the  bullfight  a yearling  is  often  turned  into  the  ring  for  the  amusement 
of  the  youthful  male  population  of  Quito  ...... 

A group  of  the  Indians  that  form  so  large  a percentage  of  Quito’s  population 

The  undertaker’s  delivery  wagon  ........ 


iCING 

PAGE 

64 

64 

69 

69 

72 

72 

76 

76 

80 

80 

96 

IOI 

IOI 

108 

108 

120 

129 

129 

133 

133 

I40 

I40 

144 

I49 

149 

156 


XVI 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


FACING 

PAGE 


Probably  not  his  own  in  spite  of  the  circumstantial  evidence  against  him  . 

Almost  everything  that  moves  in  Quito  rides  on  the  backs  of  Indians  . 

An  Indian  family  driving  away  dull  care — and  watching  me  take  the  picture  of 
a dog  down  the  street  ......... 

The  street  by  which  one  leaves  Quito  on  the  tramp  to  the  south  . 

Long  before  Edison  thought  of  his  poured-cement  houses,  the  Indians  of  the 
Andes  were  building  their  fences  in  a similar  manner  .... 

Typical  huts  of  the  p&ramo  of  Tiopullo  ....... 

Beyond  the  paramo  of  Azuay  the  trail  clambers  over  broken  rock  ledges  into  the 
town  of  Canar  ........... 

Indians  carrying  a grand  piano  across  the  plaza  of  Canar  on  a journey  to  the 
interior  ............ 

The  Indians  of  Ecuador  draw  their  droves  of  cattle  on  after  them  by  playing 
a weird,  mournful  ‘ ‘ music  ’ ’ on  the  bocina,  made  of  a section  of  bamboo 

Ruins  of  the  fortress  of  Ingapirca,  near  Canar  ...... 

A mild  example  of  the  “ road  ” through  southern  Ecuador  . . . . 

Cuenca,  third  city  of  Ecuador,  lies  in  one  of  the  most  fertile  and  beautiful 
valleys  of  the  Andes  .......... 

A detail  of  the  “ Panama  ” hat  market  of  the  Azogues  . . 

Arrived  at  the  wholesale  establishments  of  Cuenca,  the  hats  are  finished  . 

My  home  in  Cuenca,  with  the  Montesinos  family  ..... 

Students  of  the  Colegio  of  Cuenca  ........ 

The  “ English  Language  Club  ” of  Cuenca  in  full  session  .... 

An  hacienda-house  of  southern  Ecuador,  backed  by  its  grove  of  eucalyptus- 
trees.  .......... 

Plowing  for  wheat  or  corn  on  the  hacienda  of  Cumbe  ..... 

The  church,  and  the  dwelling  of  my  host,  the  priest  of  Ona  .... 

Loja,  southernmost  city  of  Ecuador,  backed  by  her  endless  labyrinth  of  moun- 
tains ............ 

The  guinea-pigs  on  which  I feasted  upon  breaking  out  of  the  wilderness  on  the 
Peruvian  frontier — and  the  cook  ........ 

The  Indians  of  Zaraguro  are  different,  both  in  type  and  costume,  from  the 
meeker  types  of  Quito  and  vicinity  ....... 

In  the  semi-tropical  Province  of  Jaen,  in  north  Peru,  sugarcane  grows  luxuriantly 

The  sugar  that  is  not  turned  into  aguardiente,  or  native  whiskey,  is  boiled  down 
in  the  trapiche  into  crude  brown  blocks,  variously  known  as  panela, 
chancaca,  rapadura,  empanisado,  papelon,  etc.,  weighed  and  wrapped  in 
banana-leaves,  selling  at  about  5 cents  for  3 pounds  .... 

xvii 


156 

161 

161 

165 

165 

168 

168 

172 

172 

176 

176 

181 

184 

184 

188 

188 

193 

193 

200 

208 

208 

213 

213 

220 


220 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING 

• PAGE 

The  tenienle-gobernador,  or  “lieutenant-governor,  ” of  Jaen  ....  229 

The  two  of  us  ...........  229 

The  main  street  of  the  great  provincial  capital  of  Jaen  ....  236 

The  government  “ ferry  ” across  the  Huancabamba  .....  236 

A woman  of  the  jungles  of  Jaen  preparing  me  the  first  meal  in  days  at  the 

typical  Ecuadorian  cook-stove  ........  248 

Peruvian  prisoners  earn  their  own  livelihood  by  weaving  hats,  spinning  yam, 

and  the  like  ...........  248 

The  ancient  city  of  Cajamarca  lies  in  one  of  the  most  magnificent  highland 

valleys  of  the  Andes  ..........  257 

The  only  wheeled  vehicle  I saw  in  Peru  during  my  first  three  months  in  that 

country  ............  264 

One  of  the  many  unfinished  churches  of  Cajamarca  .....  264 

One  of  the  few  remaining  simpichacas,  or  suspension  bridges,  of  the  Andes . .272 

A typical  shop  of  the  Andes  . . . . . . . . .272 

Detail  of  the  ruins  of  “ Marca-Huamachuco, ” high  upon  the  mountain  above 

the  modern  town  of  that  name  ........  289 

Pallasca,  to  which  I climbed  from  one  of  the  mightiest  quebradas  in  the  Andes  . 289 

Catalino  Aguilar  and  his  wife,  Fermin  Alva,  my  nurses  in  the  hospital  of  Cardz  . 296 

An  Indian  of  Cerro  de  Pasco  region  carrying  a slaughtered  sheep  . . . 296 

Though  within  a few  degrees  of  the  equator,  Huaraz,  capital  of  the  most 
populous  department  of  Peru,  has  a veritable  Swiss  setting  of  snow-clad 
peaks  and  glaciers  ..........  304 

Threshing  wheat  with  the  aid  of  the  wind  .......  304 

Crossing  the  Central  Cordillera  of  the  Andes  south  of  Huardz,  barely  nine 

degrees  below  the  equator  .........  308 

The  fortress  of  the  former  Inca  city  of  Hudnaco  el  Viejo  . . . .317 

A typical  residence  of  the  Indians  of  the  high  pdramos  . . . . .317 

The  arrieros  with  whom  I left  Huallanga,  and  the  family  inhabiting  the  hut 

shown  in  the  preceding  picture  . . . . . . .321 

The  immaculate  staff  of  the  Cerro  de  Pasco  hospital  . . . . .321 

The  semi- weekly  lottery  drawing  in  the  main  plaza  of  Lima  . . .328 

All  aboard ! A Sunday  excursion  that  was  not  posed  .....  328 

The  bleak  mining  town  of  Morococha,  more  than  16,000  feet  above  sea-level  336 

The  American  miners  of  Morococha  live  in  comfort  for  all  the  altitude  and 

bleakness  of  their  surroundings  ........  336 

A typical  miner  of  the  high  Peruvian  Andes  ......  340 

xviii 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


FACING 

PAGE 


Miners  of  Morococha, — a Welch  foreman  and  two  of  his  gang  . . . 340 

A hint  of  what  the  second-class  traveler  on  Peruvian  railways  must  put  up 

with  ............  349 

The  wide  main  street  and  a part  of  the  immense  market  of  Huancayo,  said  to 

be  the  largest  in  Peru ..........  349 

A detail  of  the  market  of  Huancayo,  with  a bit  of  pottery  like  that  of  the  days 

of  the  Incas  ...........  356 

“Chusquito”  descending  one  of  the  few  remnants  of  the  old  Inca  highway  I 

found  from  Quito  to  Cuzco  ........  356 

Huancavelica,  one  of  the  most  picturesque  and  least- visited  provincial  capitals 

of  Peru  ............  365 

On  the  “road”  to  Ayacucho  I overtook  a lawyer  who  was  importing  a piano  376 
Carrying  the  piano  across  one  of  the  typical  bridges  of  the  Peruvian  Andes  . 376 

The  striking  headdress  of  the  women  of  Ayacucho  .....  385 

The  friendly  and  ingratiating  waiters  of  our  hotel  in  Ayacucho  . . . 385 

A religious  procession  in  the  main  square  of  Ayacucho  ....  392 

A gala  Sunday  in  the  improvised  “ bullring  ” of  Ayacucho  ....  392 

A familiar  sight  in  the  Andes — a recently  butchered  beef  hung  in  sheets  along 

the  clothes-line  to  sun-dry  into  charqui  ......  400 

A typical  “bed”  in  the  guest-room  provided  for  travelers  by  many  Peruvian 

hacendados  ...........  400 

The  fatherless  urchin  who  fell  in  with  me  beyond  Andahuaylas  . . . 405 

My  body-servant  in  Andahuaylas,  and  the  sickle  with  which  he  was  supposed  to 

cut  all  the  alfalfa  “ Chusquito  ” could  eat  ......  405 

A view  of  Quito,  capital  of  Ecuador,  from  the  summit  of  the  Panecillo  . . 408 

View  of  Cuzco,  the  ancient  Inca  capital,  from  the  summit  of  Sacsahuaman  . 408 

Building  a house  in  Peru  ..........  412 

The  patio  of  the  “ Hotel  Progreso  ” of  Abancay  . . . . . .412 

A religious  procession  in  Abancay  . . . . . . . .417 

A chola  of  Abancay,  wearing  the  dicalla  which  all  put  on  at  the  age  of  puberty  . 432 

A chiefly-Indian  woman  of  Abancay  ........  432 

The  first  view  of  Cuzco  ..........  437 

An  Indian  of  Cuzco,  speaking  only  Quichua  ......  444 

Indian  women  of  the  market-place,  wearing  the  “ pancake  ” hat  of  Cuzco  . 444 

An  Indian  required  to  pay  for  the  day’s  mass  proudly  clings  to  his  staff  of  office  . 449 

Youth  from  a village  near  Cuzco,  each  with  a coca  cud  in  his  cheek  . . 449 

XIX 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING 

PAGE 

Our  party  setting  out  for  Machu  Picchu  across  the  high  plains  about  Cuzco  . 453 

Ollantaybambo,  the  end  of  the  first  day’s  journey,  in  the  valley  of  the  Uru- 

bamba  ............  453 

Spring  plowing  in  the  Urubamba  valley  .......  460 

As  we  rode  eastward  into  the  sunrise  down  the  gorge  of  the  Urubamba, 

glacier-clad  Piri  above  threw  off  its  night  wraps  of  clouds  . . . 464 

The  semicircular  tower  and  some  of  the  finest  stone-cutting  and  fitting  of 

Machu  Picchu  ...........  464 

We  came  out  on  the  edge  of  things  and  Machu  Picchu  lay  before  us  . . 469 

The  resounding  gorge  of  the  Urubamba,  with  terraces  of  the  ancient  inhabitants 

on  the  inaccessible  left  bank  ........  472 

One  of  the  many  stairways  of  Machu  Picchu  ......  472 

The  temple  of  the  three  windows,  an  unusual  feature  of  Inca  architecture  . . 476 

" Ruminaui  ” seated  on  the  intihuatana,  or  sun-dial,  at  the  top  of  the  town  . 476 

The  babies  of  Bolivia  sit  in  a whole  nest  of  finery  on  nurse’s  back.  . . 485 

Arequipa  is  built  of  stones  light  as  wood,  cut  from  a neighboring  quarry  . . 485 

Indians  plowing  on  the  shores  of  Titicaca  .......  492 

Sunrise  at  Copacabana,  the  sacred  city  of  Bolivia  on  the  shores  of  Titicaca  . 492 

One  of  the  two  huge  figures  facing  the  grass-grown  plaza  of  modern  Tiahuanaco 

at  the  entrance  to  the  church  . . . . . . . .501 

The  ancient  god  of  Tiahuanaco  before  which  the  Indian  woman,  herding  her 

pigs,  bowed  down  in  worship  ........  501 

Arequipa,  second  city  of  Peru,  in  its  desert  oasis,  backed  by  misty  volcano  . 504 

“ Suddenly  the  bleak  pampa  falls  away  at  one’s  feet”  .....  504 

Llamas  of  La  Paz  patiently  awaiting  the  return  of  their  driver  . . . 508 

Down  the  valley  below  La  Paz  the  pink  and  yellow  soil  stands  in  fantastic, 

rain-gashed  cliffs  ..........  508 

Cholas  of  La  Paz,  in  their  native  garb  .......  513 

“Sandy”  leading  his  train  of  carts  loaded  with  construction  material  for  the 

railroad  to  Cochabamba  .........  528 

The  “gringo  bench”  of  Cochabamba, — left  to  right,  “Old  Man  Simpson”; 

Tommy  Cox;  Sampson,  the  Cockney;  Owen;  and  Scribmer  . . . 528 

The  home  and  family  of  the  alcalde  who  could  not  read  ....  536 

Our  impromptu  celebration  of  Christmas  Eve  in  Pampa  Grande  . . . 536 

A street  of  Santa  Cruz  de  la  Sierra  after  a shower  .....  545 

Conscripts  of  the  Bolivian  army  practicing  their  first  maneuvers  in  the  central 

plaza  of  Santa  Cruz  ..........  545 


XX 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING 

PAGE 

Manuel  Abasto,  a native  of  Santa  Cruz  de  la  Sierra  .....  552 

Through  the  open  doors  of  Santa  Cruz  one  often  catches  a glimpse  of  the  patio,  ' 

a garden  gay  with  flowers  .........  552 

Konanz  seated  on  our  baggage  in  the  pelota  de  cuero  .....  560 

The  force  of  one  of  the  four  fortines,  or  “fortresses,”  with  which  the  Bolivian 

government  garrisons  the  Monte  Grande  against  the  savages  . . . 560 

Jim  and  “Hughtie”  Powell,  Americans  from  Texas  who  have  turned  Bolivian 

peons  ............  564 

A jungle  hair-cut  ...........  564' 

The  old  stone  and  brick  church  and  monastery  of  San  Josd  . . . -573 

The  fatherly  old  cura  of  San  Jose  standing  before  the  Jesuit  sun-dial  . . 573 

Henry  Halsey,  the  American  rancher,  of  tropical  Bolivia,  and  his  family  . 577 

Saddle-steers  take  the  place  of  horses  and  mules  in  the  muddy  parts  of  tropical 

Bolivia  ............  577 

A German  of  tropical  Bolivia  and  his  “ housekeeper”  . . . . .581 

Santiago  de  Chiquitos,  above  the  gnat-line,  backed  by  its  reddish  cliffs  . .581 

“Don  Cupertino,”  chief  adornment  of  eastern  Bolivia,  with  his  family  and 

dependents  ...........  588 

The  tipoy,  a single  loose  gown,  constitutes  the  entire  garb  of  most  of  the  native 

women  of  tropical  Bolivia  .........  592 

A girl  of  Santiago  de  Chiquitos  selling  a chicken  to  the  cook  of  “ los  americanos”  592 

The  shoemaker  who  lived  next  door  to  “los  americanos”  in  Santiago  de  Chiqui- 
tos, and  his  latest  “ wife  ” .........  597 

A birthday  dance  in  Santiago  de  Chiquitos,  in  honor  of  the  German  in  the  center 

background  ...........  597 

A view  from  the  promenade-deck  of  the  steamer  .....  604 

A Paraguayan  landscape,  with  native  cart  .......  604 

The  mixture  of  types  in  the  Argentine  .......  608 

MAP  ’ 

The  author’s  itinerary  ..........  40 


xxi 


VAGABONDING 
DOWN  THE  ANDES 


VAGABONDING 
DOWN  THE  ANDES 


CHAPTER  I 

UP  TO  BOGOTA 

WHEN  we  had  “ made  a stake  ” as  Canal  Zone  policemen,  Leo 
Hays  and  I sailed  from  Panama  to  South  America.  On 
board  the  Royal  Mail  steamer  the  waist  of  the  ship,  to 
which  our  tickets  confined  us,  was  a screaming  pandemonium  of  West 
Indian  negroes,  homeward  bound  from  canal  digging,  and  a veritable 
chaos  of  their  baggage  and  household  goods  — and  gods  — ranging 
from  tin  trunks  to  pet  monkeys,  from  battered  phonographs  to  plush- 
bound  Bibles.  We  preempted  deck  space  for  our  suitcases  and  sat 
down  upon  them.  It  chanced  to  be  the  same  day  on  which,  eight 
years  before,  I had  set  out  on  a “ vagabond  journey  ” around  the 
world. 

Twenty-four  hours  after  our  last  Zone  handshake  we  marched  down 
the  gangplank  among  the  little  brown  policemen  of  Cartagena,  Co- 
lombia, and  fought  our  way  through  a mob  of  dock  loafers  to  the  toy 
railroad  train  that  eventually  creaked  away  into  the  city.  Our  re- 
volvers and  cartridge  belts  we  wore  out  of  sight ; uniforms  and  night- 
sticks no  longer  figured  in  our  equipment.  But  the  campaign  costume 
we  had  chosen, — broad  felt  hats,  Norfolk  jackets  and  breeches  of  olive 
drab,  and  the  leather  leggings  common  to  the  Zone  — were  evidently 
more  conspicuous  here  than  we  had  suspected.  For  about  us  wher- 
ever we  moved  sounded  awe-struck  stage  whispers : 

“ Psst ! Policia  de  la  Zona  ! ” 

The  ancient  city  and  fortress  of  Cartagena  — and  for  America  it  is 
old  indeed  — squats  on  a sandy  point  jutting  far  out  into  the  blue 
Caribbean,  with  a beach  curving  inland  on  either  hand.  A sea-wall  be- 
side which  that  of  Panama  seems  a plaything,  of  massive  weather- 
tarnished,  ocean-lashed  stones,  brown-gray  with  age,  with  stern,  dig- 

3 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


nified  old  gateways,  encloses  the  city  in  irregular  form.  On  its  top 
is  a promenade  varying  in  width  from  a carriage  drive  to  a manoeuver 
field.  Outside,  down  on  the  languidly  garrulous  beach,  little  thatched 
huts  have  drifted  together  under  the  cocoanut  groves.  Inside,  the 
dust-deep  streets  have  long  since  lost  most  of  the  cobbled  paving  of 
their  Spanish  birthright ; the  narrow,  inadequate  tile  sidewalks  are 
far  from  continuous,  and  the  rules  of  life  are  so  lax  that  only  the  con- 
stant sweep  of  the  sea  air  accounts  for  old  age  amid  conditions  that 
should  bring  death  early  and  often. 

Long  before  we  reached  our  hotel  we  regretted  our  penuriousness  in 
scorning  cabs  and  carriers.  Not  only  did  the  weight  of  our  suitcases 
double  every  few  yards  in  the  leaden  tropical  air,  and  the  labyrinthian 
way  through  the  city  elude  us.  at  every  turn,  but  at  least  a score  of 
ragged  boys  trailed  respectfully  but  hopefully  in  our  rear  with  the 
anticipatory  manner  of  an  opera  understudy  waiting  in  the  edge  of  the 
wings  for  the  principal  to  break  down  at  the  next  note.  A generous 
percentage  of  the  population  crowded  the  doorways  and  children  raced 
ahead  to  summon  forth  their  families  to  behold  what  was  apparently 
the  most  exciting  thing  that  had  taken  place  in  Cartagena  in  months. 
Evidently  a Caballero  bearing  his  own  material  burdens  was  a strange 
sight  in  South  America.  The  populace  stared  fixedly,  in  as  impersonal 
a way  as  ruminating  oxen,  and  every  few  yards  half-naked  children, 
evidently  abetted  by  their  elders,  swarmed  out  upon  us  with  shrill 
cries  of  “ Wan  sheeling ! ” 

We  were  soon  reminded  that  we  had  left  behind  our  power  as  well 
as  our  emoluments.  The  proprietress  whose  oily  Hebrew  smile  greeted 
us  at  the  hotel  door  was  none  other  than  one  long  “ wanted  ” on  the 
Zone  on  the  charge  of  running  a disorderly  house.  The  room  she  as- 
signed us  was  enormous,  but  the  furnishings  were  scant  and  thin,  the 
beds  mere  strips  of  canvas,  as  befits  a country  of  perennial  midsummer. 
While  we  unpacked  and  shaved,  a ragged  brown  urchin  slipped  in  with 
the  Barranquilla  newspaper.  In  a characteristic  burst  of  generosity 
Hays  tossed  him  double  the  price  demanded  — only  to  discover  just 
after  the  vendor  was  out  of  reach  that  the  pauperous  little  sheet  was 
twenty  days  old.  It  was  a “ bunco  game  ” so  aged  it  had  grown  new 
again.  Maria,  the  chambermaid,  already  in  the  sear  and  yellow  leaf, 
shuffled  in  frequently,  supremely  indifferent  to  our  scantiness  of  attire. 
Now  and  then  several  younger  females  of  decidedly  African  ancestry 
strolled  by  as  nonchalantly,  one  by  one,  to  inquire  whether  we  had  any 
soiled  clothes  to  wash,  and  loitered  about  in  a manner  to  suggest  that 

4 


Along  the  Magdalena  we  halted  several  times  each  day  for  fuel,  the  villagers  looking  idly 
on  while  the  crew  carried  many  a woodpile  on  board  across  a precarious  gang-plank 


UP  TO  BOGOTA 


the  question  was  meant  to  be  taken  figuratively.  This  friendliness  was 
the  general  attitude  of  all  the  town.  Outwardly  at  least  we  were  shown 
no  discourtesy,  and  there  was  little  confirmation  of  the  reputed  hatred 
of  Americans.  Yet  almost  from  the  moment  of  our  landing  we  noted 
that  Colombians  seemed  to  avoid  speaking  to  us  beyond  the  require- 
ments of  business  or  the  cut  and  dried  forms  of  their  habitual  polite- 
ness. Still,  with  only  an  anemic  candle  to  flicker  its  pale  shadows 
on  the  enclosing  wall  of  the  droning  tropical  night,  we  settled  down  to 
the  conclusion  that  Colombia,  alleged  the  deadly  enemy  of  all  things 
American  and  “ heretical,”  was  less  black  than  she  'had  been  painted. 

We  had  reached  the  land  of  easy  money.  Merely  to  step  into  a bank 
with  a $5  bill  was  to  emerge  with  a bulging  roll  of  $500.  We  could 
not  repress  a millionaire  swagger  when  we  tossed  a hundred-dollar 
note  on  the  counter  to  pay  for  a pair  of  socks,  though  it  quickly  wilted 
when  a few  nickel  pieces  were  tendered  in  change.  Hays  dropped  into 
a dingy  little  hole-in-the-wall  to  buy  a cigar,  but  though  it  was  cer- 
tainly the  only  $5  cigar  he  had  ever  strutted  behind,  he  soon  tossed  it 
away  in  disgust*.  The  newcomer  is  apt  to  be  startled  when  he  hears  a 
Colombian  casually  mention  paying  $10,000  for  a mule  — until  he 
realizes  that  the  speaker  is  really  talking  in  cents.  The  Colombian 
notes,  even  those  of  the  intrinsic  value  of  our  copper  coin,  are  elabo- 
rately engraved,  and  the  wonder  grew  how  the  Government  could 
afford  to  print  them. 

For  those  who  will  exert  themselves,  even  in  the  tropics,  there  is  a 
splendid  view  of  all  Cartagena  from  La  Popa,  a hill  standing  forth 
Gibraltar-like  above  the  inner  harbor,  on  its  nose  a massive  old  church 
and  fortress  combined.  From  it  the  cruder  details  of  the  town,  the 
startling  pink  and  sky-blue  of  newer  walls  and  balconies,  fade  to 
the  general  inconspicuousness  of  the  more  age-mellowed  houses.  The 
ancient  red-tile  roofs  blend  artistically  into  the  patches  of  greensward 
and  the  light  pink  of  royal  ponciana  trees ; the  whole  city,  edged  by 
the  landward-leaning  cocoanut  palms,  is  framed  by  a sea  stretching 
away  on  either  hand  to  the  world’s  end. 

The  half-grown  Colombian  of  forty  in  charge  of  La  Popa  and  the 
telescope  and  telephone  by  which  incoming  ships  are  reported,  changed 
gradually  from  canny  distrust  to  garrulous  curiosity  and  invited  us  to 
inspect  his  entire  domain.  The  purely  academic  dislike  of  Americans 
we  soon  found  was  overcome  with  little  effort  by  those  who  addressed 
men  of  his  class  in  their  own  tongue.  Conversation  at  length  drifted 
to  sanitation  in  Panama,  Colombia’s  “ rebel  province,”  as  he  called  it. 

5 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


The  fort-keeper  listened  to  our  tales  in  loose-jawed  wonder  and 
summed  up  his  opinions  of  such  gringo  superstitions  with : 

“ But  here  we  do  none  of  those  things,  senores ! The  mosquitos 
prick  us  every  day,  yet  we  are  well.” 

Our  strange  notion  that  disease  could  be  carried  by  a mere  insect 
was  as  absurd  to  him  as  was  to  us  his  own  habit  of  relying  for  health 
on  the  plaster  saint  in  the  vaulted  fortress  church. 

Even  in  Panama  information  on  travel  in  Colombia  had  been  al- 
most as  lacking  as  trust-worthy  reports  on  the  interior  conditions  of 
Mars.  Only  once  in  my  five  months  on  the  Canal  Zone  had  I run 
across  even  an  ostensible  source  of  knowledge.  He  was  a native  of 
Cali,  and  his  answers  had  been  distinctly  Latin-American. 

“ Does  it  rain  much  in  your  country?”  I had  asked  him. 

“ Si,  senor,  when  it  rains  it  is  wet.  When  it  does  n’t  it  is  dry.” 

“ Is  it  cold?” 

“ Si,  senor,  in  the  cold  places  it  is  cold,  and  in  the  hot  places  it  is 
hot.  No  hay  reglas  fixas  — there  are  no  fixed  rules.” 

“ How  far  is  it  from  Cali  to  Popayan?” 

“ Ah,  it  is  not  near,  senor.” 

“ About  a hundred  miles,  perhaps  ? ” 

“ Si,  senor,  just  about  that.” 

“ Isn’t  it  rather  about  three  hundred?” 

“ Pues,  si,  senor,  perhaps  just  about  that.” 

There  the  matter  had  stood  when  we  sailed. 

Once  arrived  in  Cartagena,  however,  we  found  that  a toy  train  left 
next  day  for  Calamar  on  the  Magdalena  and  that  a second-class  ticket 
to  Honda,  wherever  that  was,  cost  $2000!  We  had  barely  crammed 
ourselves  into  two  seats  of  the  little  piano-box  car  next  day  when 
Hays  started  up  with  a snort  and  thrust  the  morning  newspaper  across 
at  me.  Done  into  English  the  item  that  had  drawn  his  attention  ran : 

“ SOME  ONE 

“ who  merits  our  entire  confidence,  informs  us  that  yesterday  there  were  in  the 
“ city,  taking  photographic  views  of  our  forts  and  most  important  edifices,  two 
“ foreign  individuals  who  wore  clothing  of  military  cut  of  the  cloth  called 
“ khaki,  and  felt  hats  with  wide  brim.  This  costume,  as  it  has  been  described 
“ to  us,  is  that  of  the  army  of  the  United  States ! Can  these  really  be  Amer- 
“ ican  soldiers,  or  has  a great  outward  similarity  caused  the  suspicious  imagina- 
tion to  see  that  which  in  reality  did  not  exist?  We  cannot  assure  it!  ” 

We  had  hardly  aspired  to  be  taken  for  a hostile  invasion  from  the 
dreaded  “ Colossus  of  the  North.”  It  was  characteristic  of  Latin- 

6 


UP  TO  BOGOTA 


American  thinking  processes  for  the  paragrapher  to  fancy  that  spies  — 
for  such  the  item  covertly  dubbed  us  — would  appear  in  uniform.  We 
had  yet  to  learn,  however,  that  the  makers  of  newspaper,  and  of 
public  opinion,  in  so  far  as  it  exists,  in  South  America  would  often 
rank  in  our  own  land  as  irresponsible  and  poorly  trained  schoolboys. 

The  miniature  train,  ambling  away  in  a morning  unoppressive  in 
spite  of  the  tropical  sunshine,  wound  through  a thin  jungle,  sometimes 
climbing,  more  often  stopping  at  languorous,  staring,  thatched  villages, 
in  a region  suffering  from  drought  but  of  fertile  appearance.  By  and 
by  the  jungle  gave  way  to  what  might  almost  have  been  called  prairie, 
slightly  rolling  and  used  only  for  grazing.  Toward  noon,  beyond  some 
swampy  land,  we  clattered  into  the  carelessly  whitewashed  town  of 
Calamar,  drowsing  on  the  sandy  bank  of  the  Magdalena,  here  a half 
mile  wide.  Even  before  we  jolted  to  a halt,  the  car  filled  with  a strug- 
gling mob  of  beggars,  shrill-voiced  boys,  and  tattered  men,  eager,  in 
their  indolent  tropical  way,  for  some  easy  errand.  Such  unwonted 
energy  soon  evaporated.  The  population  was  of  as  mongrel  a mixture 
as  the  yellow  dogs  that  slunk  about  in  the  shade  of  trees  and  house 
walls,  and  appeared  to  hold  identically  the  same  attitude  toward 
life. 

At  length,  in  the  cool  of  the  following  evening,  the  “Alicia  ” began 
to  plow  her  way  slowly  upstream.  She  was  a three-story  craft  with  a 
huge  paddle-wheel  at  the  stern,  her  lower  deck  crowded  with  unas- 
sorted freight,  domestic  animals,  engines  and  wood-piles,  with  deck 
hands,  native  passengers,  pots  and  pans  and  unattractive  habits. 
Among  the  most  conspicuous  of  the  latter  were  those  of  an  open-air 
den  that  served  as  general  kitchen.  Twice  a day  a small  tub  of  rice, 
boiled  plantains  and  some  meat  mystery,  all  cooked  in  a single  kettle, 
was  carried  out  on  one  of  the  barges  alongside,  where  it  was  fallen  up- 
on not  only  by  the  lower-deck  passengers  but  by  the  even  darker-skinned 
deck  hands,  dressed  in  what  had  once  been  trousers  and  the  wear- 
forever  shirts  so  popular  in  this  region.  A few  owned  spoons  and 
others  a piece  of  cocoanut  shell,  but  these  were  no  handicap  to  the  ma- 
jority, armed  only  with  the  utensils  of  nature.  Little  had  we  suspected 
the  meaning  of  “ second-class  ” on  the  Magdalena ! 

Luckily  the  English  agent  of  the  line  had  been  so  shocked  at  sight 
of  our  tickets,  particularly,  perhaps,  in  the  hands  of  Hays,  who  was  in 
appearance  the  hero  of  any  of  our  modern  romantic  novels  stepping 
bodily  forth  from  the  cardboard  of  any  of  our  popular  illustrators, 
that  he  had  ordered  the  steward  to  overlook  the  color  thereof  and  treat 

7 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


us  as  cabin  passengers.  On  the  upper  deck  the  steamer  was  open  from 
stem  to  stern,  a dining  table  stretching  along  her  center  and  the  sides 
lined  by  frail,  box-like  “ staterooms.”  The  little  canvas  cots,  narrow 
as  the  charpoys  of  India,  used  alike  by  passengers  and  the  unlaundered 
youths  that  passed  for  stewards,  were  dragged  to  any  part  of  the  craft 
that  suited  the  whims  of  the  sleeper.  Our  drinking  water  was  the 
native  Magdalena,  sometimes  carelessly  filtered  through  a porous 
stone.  There  was  even  a shower-bath  — when  the  paddle-wheel  was 
elevating  enough  of  the  chocolate-colored  river  water  to  permit  it  to 
“ function  ” — but  it  generally  took  most  of  the  morning  and  all  the 
stewards  to  find  the  misplaced  key. 

Frequently  for  days  at  a time  there  were  only  the  two  of  us  to  occupy 
the  cane  rocking-chairs  that  embellished  the  upper  foredeck.  Here  day 
after  day  we  watched  the  monotonous  yellow  bank  unroll  with  infinite 
slowness,  like  a film  clogged  in  the  machine.  The  country,  flat,  con- 
siderably wooded,  and  characterless,  stood  only  a few  feet  above  the 
river,  its  soil  sandy,  though  not  without  fertility,  with  occasional  clear- 
ings and  many  immense  spreading  trees.  Here  and  there  on  the  ex- 
treme edge  of  the  stream  hung  a few  scattered  thatched  villages,  all 
apparently  engaged  in  the  favorite  occupation  of  doing  nothing,  living 
on  the  few  fruits  and  vegetables  that  grew  themselves  and  drinking 
the  yellow  Magdalena  pure. 

At  such  times  there  was  nothing  left  but  to  while  away  the  languid 
hours  in  perfecting  our  plans  for  the  journey  ahead.  For  once  I had 
chanced  upon  a traveling  companion  who  had  actually  started  when 
the  hour  of  departure  came,  and  who  bade  fair  to  pursue  the  expedition 
to  the  bitter  end.  Leo  Hays  had  first  seen  the  light  — such  as  it  is  in 
Missouri  — six  months  later  than  I,  but  had  overcome  that  initial 
handicap  by  deflecting  the  sun’s  rays  in  many  a varying  clime.  The 
schools  had  early  scowled  upon  him  — or  he  upon  them  — and  he  had 
retaliated  by  gathering  in  his  own  way  much  that  schools  have  never 
hoarded  away  in  their  impregnable  warehouses.  The  gleaning  had  car- 
ried him  far  afield,  in  social  strata  as  well  as  physical  distance,  but  it 
had  left  him  unburdened  with  the  bric-a-brac  of  life  so  dear  to  the 
bourgeois  soul.  Wasteful  of  money  and  the  petty  things  of  life,  he  was 
never  wasteful  of  life  itself.  He  was  of  those  who  look  at  the  world 
through  a wide-angle  lens.  There  is  a breadth  of  vision  gained  in  an 
existence  varying  from  “ hobo  ” printer  and  editor  in  our  pulsating 
Southwest  to  sugar  estate  overseer  in  the  Guianas,  from  the  forecastle 
to  the  Moro  villages  of  the  Philippines,  that  makes  a formal  educa- 

8 


UP  TO  BOGOTA 


tion  seem  cramped  and  restricted  by  comparison.  To  those  who  did 
not  know  the  Canal  Zone  in  its  halcyon  days  a mere  corporal  of  police 
demanding  of  himself  the  ability  to  converse  intelligently  a half  hour 
on  any  subject  from  astronomy  to  Norse  literature,  from  heraldry  to 
Urdu  philosophy,  may  seem  a fantastic  figure.  To  the  experienced 
“ Zoner  ” it  is  commonplace. 

On  Sunday  morning  the  entire  village  of  Zambrano,  headed  by  its 
curate  and  dressed  in  every  imaginable  misfit  of  sun-bleached  gaiety, 
swarmed  on  board  and  subjected  us  to  a leisurely  detailed  examina- 
tion that  gave  us  the  sensation  of  being  museum  exhibits.  The 
“ Alicia  ” was  soon  off  again  and  we  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the 
town  was  migrating  en  masse.  A few  hundred  yards  beyond,  how- 
ever, we  tied  up  to  the  bank  once  more  and  waited  a long  hour  while 
all  Zambrano  took  leave  of  the  priest.  Every  inhabitant  under  fifteen 
kissed  his  hand,  which  each  of  the  women  pressed  fervently,  some 
several  times  over,  after  which  the  men  approached  him  in  procession, 
padre  and  layman  throwing  an  arm  about  each  other’s  neck  and  slapping 
each  other  some  seven  times  each  between  the  shoulder-blades.  It 
was  only  the  customary  Colombian  abrazo  and  the  formality  of  see- 
ing the  curate  a little  way  on  his  journey.  Meanwhile  our  half-Indian 
boy  captain  stood  smilingly  by,  twisting  the  two  tiny  sprigs  of  mus- 
tache that  gave  him  so  striking  a resemblance  to  a Chinese  mandarin 
turned  river  pirate.  He  was  far  too  good  a Catholic  to  cut  short 
the  leave-taking  even  had  he  guessed  that  anyone  on  board  chaffed  at 
the  delay.  The  day  was  much  older  before  we  crawled  out  into  the 
middle  of  the  stream  again.  But  no  man  journeys  up  to  Bogota 
hastily.  The  Land  of  Hurry  was  behind  us. 

When  we  addressed  him,  the  priest  answered  us  courteously  enough, 
then  dropped  the  conversation  in  a manner  to  suggest  that  he  did  not 
care  to  pursue  it  further.  Like  his  fellow-countrymen  in  general  he 
seemed  to  have  no  hunger  for  knowledge,  no  notion  that  he  might 
learn  from  others.  The  attitude  of  all  the  upper-deck  passengers  was 
as  if  an  edict  had  gone  forth  to  dislike  Americans.  Individually  none 
had  any  grievance  against  us,  collectively  they  seemed  banded  to- 
gether in  a species  of  intellectual  boycott,  which  none  of  them  vented 
to  the  extent  of  losing  his  reputation  for  politeness.  Their  manner 
suggested  pouting  children,  unwilling  to  declare  their  fancied  griev- 
ances and  fight  them  out  like  men. 

There  were  a half  dozen  of  us  at  table  that  evening,  with  the 
priest  in  the  place  of  honor  at  the  head.  The  meal  passed  without  a 

9 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


spoken  word,  at  racehorse  speed.  It  recalled  a placard  I had  seen  in 
a Texas  restaurant  on  my  journey  southward:  “Eat  first,  THEN 

talk,”  and  amid  the  opening  chorus  Hays’  memory  harked  back  to  a 
sign  that  once  embellished  a Bowery  institution : “ Soup  should  be 

seen  and  not  heard.”  That  we  paused  for  speech  between  mouthfuls 
seemed  to  fill  our  companions  with  a mixture  of  disgust  and  amaze- 
ment. It  was  perilous,  too,  for  ragged,  barefooted  waiters  more 
numerous  than  the  diners,  hovered  over  us,  quick  to  snatch  away  the 
plate  of  anyone  who  dared  raise  his  head.  How  unlike  the  sociable 
meals  of  Spain  was  this  silent  wolfing! 

Their  own  parents  could  not  have  distinguished  one  meal  from  an- 
other. The  soup  was  always  of  the  general  collection  variety,  the 
two  vegetables  incessantly  the  same ; the  beef  varied  from  the  hope- 
lessly tough  to  the  suspiciously  tender ; for  the  system  on  the  river 
steamers  of  the  Magdalena  is  to  slaughter  a steer  on  the  lower 
deck  the  first  morning  of  the  voyage  and  serve  it  twice  daily  until 
passengers  are  unanimous  in  leaving  their  plates  untouched,  then 
regretfully  to  lead  another  gloomy,  raw-boned  animal  forth  to  slaughter 
Yet  no  one  could  have  complained  on  the  score  of  quantity.  We  no 
longer  wondered  at  the  sallow  flabbiness  of  those  about  us  in  spite  of 
their  life  in  the  open  air. 

The  voracious  engines  of  the  “ Alicia  ” required  more  halting  than 
movement.  Barely  had  we  left  the  faint  lights  of  Calamar  astern 
when  we  tied  up  for  hours  before  a woodpile  in  the  edge  of  the 
jungle,  and  never  did  a half  day  pass  without  a long  halt  to  replenish 
the  fuel.  The  sight  of  a bamboo  hut  or  a cluster  of  thatched  shacks 
crouched  in  a little  semicircular  space  gouged  out  of  the  immense 
forest  was  sure  to  bring  a shrill  scream  from  the  whistle  and  in  the 
soft  air  of  evening  we  crawled  up  to  a tiny  clearing  where  perhaps 
thirty  cords  of  wood  lay  awaiting  a purchaser.  They  were  heavy 
slabs  some  three  feet  long,  the  piles  separated  by  upright  poles  into 
divisions  called  burros,  the  conventional  load,  perhaps,  of  one  ass. 
On  the  utter  edge  of  the  bank  hung  a miserable  little  hut  swarming 
with  dogs  and  equally  unwashed  human  beings.  There  were  the  usual 
endless  manoeuvers  to  a mooring,  then  the  entire  crew  went  ashore 
on  the  heels  of  the  captain,  armed  with  his  measuring  stick.  He  and 
the  woodsman,  a sturdy,  bashful  fellow,  gave  each  other  the  cus- 
tomary greeting  pat  on  the  shoulder,  then  stood  a long  time,  each 
with  a hand  on  the  woodpile,  discussing  the  details  of  the  imminent 
financial  transaction. 

io 


UP  TO  BOGOTA 


But  they  could  not  come  to  terms,  and  at  length  the  steamer  popula- 
tion returned  on  board  and  for  ten  minutes  with  much  ringing  of  bells 
and  screeching  of  whistles  the  “ Alicia  ’’  went  through  the  pretence 
of  getting  under  way.  The  woodsman  held  his  ground,  though  his 
wood  looked  as  if  he  had  already  held  it  several  years.  At  length 
we  returned  to  the  same  mooring  and  a wash-basin  of  boiled  beef  and 
plantains  was  carried  ashore  as  a peace  offering.  This  time  we  struck 
a bargain,  and  the  two  populations  exchanged  places.  The  country- 
men, of  all  ages  and  both  sexes,  many  with  evidences  of  loathsome 
diseases,  one  limping  on  a foot  white  with  leprosy,  swarmed  into  every 
corner  of  the  craft,  gazing  open-mouthed  at  her  unbelievable  magnifi- 
cence, sitting  cautiously  down  in  the  deck  chairs,  thrusting  their  fingers 
into  the  saucers  of  dessert  that  had  been  set  out  an  hour  or  two  before 
meal  time  to  give  the  flies  fair  play,  passing  from  hand  to  hand 
anything  that  caught  their  fancy.  Their  protruding  bellies  suggested 
that  the  hookworm  was  prevalent.  The  men  wore  over  one  shoulder 
a satchel-like  pouch  called  a garniel,  for  their  clothing  was  not  such  as 
might  safely  have  been  entrusted  with  their  minor  possessions. 

Meanwhile  we  had  taken  advantage  of  the  opportunity  to  stretch 
our  legs  ashore,  for  whatever  their  faults  these  jungle  people  are  not 
addicted  to  thievery.  Under  the  edge  of  the  forest,  into  the  dense 
green  depths  of  which  we  could  wander  a little  way  amid  a wealth  of 
woodland  aromas  and  the  fitful  songs  of  birds,  was  planted  a little 
field  of  corn,  the  stalks  a full  ten  feet  high,  even  the  ears  in  many 
cases  well  above  our  heads,  though  the  jungle  was  thick  between  the 
rows  and  there  was  no  sign  of  other  labor  than  the  planting.  A bit 
of  sugarcane  grew  as  luxuriantly,  and  behind  the  hut  stood  a crude 
trapiche,  or  cane  crusher,  a mere  stump  and  lever  above  a dug-out 
trough.  Palm,  gourd,  mango,  and  papaya  trees,  the  females  of  the 
latter  heavy  with  fruit  and  the  males  gay  with  yellow  blossoms,  sug- 
gested that  the  spot  might  have  been  one  of  the  most  flourishing 
gardens  on  earth  had  the  inhabitants  any  other  industry  or  desire 
than  to  roll  about  on  their  earth  floors.  From  a corner  of  the  patch 
the  stewards  cut  long  reeds  and  made  trumpets  of  exactly  the  sound 
of  army  bugles. 

The  houses  of  the  region  are  very  simply  built.  Four  posts,  some 
six  inches  in  diameter  and  rising  as  many  feet  above  the  ground,  are 
set  at  the  corners  of  the  house  to  be.  Halfway  between  these  are 
set  four  smaller  upright  poles,  giving  each  wall  three  supports. 
Along  the  tops  of  these,  saplings  about  four  inches  in  diameter  are 

II 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


tied  with  green  vines,  after  which  pole  rafters  are  raised.  Across 
these,  six  to  eight  inches  apart,  are  laid  strips  of  split  bamboo,  also 
tied  with  vines.  The  roof  is  then  thatched  with  dried  banana  leaves, 
laid  lengthwise  with  the  slope  of  the  roof,  those  underneath  secured 
by  being  bent  over  the  bamboo  strips,  and  layer  after  layer  of  them 
piled  on  until  the  thatch  is  a foot  or  more  thick.  Two  poles,  tied 
some  distance  apart  with  green  vines,  are  then  thrown  over  the  peak 
of  the  roof  to  keep  a sudden  gust  of  wind  from  lifting  the  shelter  off 
the  dwellers’  heads,  and  the  residence  is  ready  for  occupancy. 

The  deck  hands,  each  wearing  on  his  head  a grain  sack  split  up  one 
side,  stood  in  file  beside  the  diminishing  woodpile.  When  his  turn 
came,  each  grasped  the  end  of  his  sack  in  the  right  hand  and  held  the 
arm  at  full  length  while  others  heaped  it  high  with  cordwood.  As 
soon  as  he  had  what  he  considered  a reasonable  amount,  the  carrier 
threw  a rope  held  in  his  left  hand  over  the  load,  caught  it  deftly  in  the 
already  burdened  right  and,  pulling  it  taut,  marched  down  some  twenty 
feet  of  perpendicular  sandy  bank  and  across  a wobbly  eight-inch 
plank  without  a quiver.  We  envied  them  the  exercise  at  every  land- 
ing, but  even  to  have  carried  a stick  on  board  would  have  been  not  only 
to  lose  our  own  caste  but  to  jeopardize  that  of  all  our  fellow-country- 
men. 

Nothing  would  be  more  futile  than  to  attempt  to  describe  the  tropical 
sunset,  exceeded  in  beauty,  if  at  all,  only  by  sunrise,  as  it  spread 
across  this  flat  jungle  and  forest  country,  the  curving  river  and  wood- 
lands. On  into  the  night  the  languid  wood  loading  continued,  lighted 
up  in  irregular  patches  by  the  lamps  of  the  steamer  and  flickering  oil 
torches  ashore.  Long  after  dark,  as  the  last  of  the  burros  was  disap- 
pearing, the  jungle  dweller  came  on  board  in  person  and  fixed  upon 
me  to  figure  up  how  much  he  had  coming,  openly  putting  his  faith 
in  a foreigner  in  preference  to  a native.  There  were  119  burros,  for 
which  he  was  to  receive  fourteen  cents  each.  It  totalled  $16.66,  or,  as 
it  sounded  to  him,  $1666,  and  by  and  by  the  purser,  who  would  no 
doubt  have  beaten  him  a few  hundred  dollars  in  the  multiplication 
but  for  my  pencil,  came  out  of  his  cabin  with  an  Australian  gold  sov- 
ereign and  an  immense  handful  of  Colombian  bills.  I asked  the  re- 
cipient how  long  he  had  worked  to  get  the  pile  together  and  received 
the  expected  South  American  answer: 

“ Ay ! Muchos  soles,  senor, — many  suns,”  which  of  course  was  as 
exact  as  he  could  be  about  it.  Strangely  enough  he  resisted  the  wheed- 
ling of  the  ragged  stewards  to  exchange  his  fortune  for  the  cheap 


The  stewards  of  the  "Alicia"  in  full  uniform  Hays  catches  his  first  glimpse  of  the  jungles  of  Colombi; 


UP  TO  BOGOTA 


straw  hats  and  brass  rings  they  carried  for  sale  and  got  safely  ashore 
with  the  entire  handful  of  what,  in  these  wilds,  could  not  have  been  of 
any  great  practical  value. 

As  we  pushed  off,  the  captain  announced  that  we  had  wood  enough 
to  last  until  the  following  noon.  One  would  have  fancied  we  had 
enough  to  last  to  the  seventh  circle  and  back.  Here  we  could  still 
“ march  ” all  night,  for  the  river  was  deep  in  spite  of  its  great  width. 
As  we  sat  in  solitary  glory  on  the  upper  deck  watching  the  blood-red 
moon  come  up  out  of  the  jungle,  Hays  suddenly  broke  off  a disserta- 
tion on  the  philosophy  of  life  of  Marcus  Aurelius  to  exclaim: 

“ We  ought  to  swear  off  on  this.  If  we  ’re  going  to  walk  along  the 
top  of  the  Andes  we  ’ll  need  all  the  chest  expansion  we ’ve  got,”  and 
suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  he  chucked  his  half-smoked  $5  cigar 
overboard.  It  was  not  until  late  next  morning  that  I saw  him  light 
the  next  one. 

“ But  I thought  you ’d  sworn  off?”  I reminded  him. 

“ That ’s  the  great  value  of  resolutions,”  he  answered,  “ you  make 
them  to  break  them  and  feel  the  genuine  freedom  of  life.  But  to- 
morrow I ’ll  swear  off  in  earnest  ” — which  he  did,  almost  daily  as 
long  as  the  journey  lasted.  Meanwhile,  my  birthday  making  a good 
date  for  it,  I gave  up  the  habit  definitely  myself,  none  too  sure  of  its 
effect  in  the  lofty  altitudes  before  us. 

We  moved  at  about  the  speed  of  a log-raft  towed  by  a sunfish. 
Whenever  there  was  danger  of  our  making  a reasonable  Colombian 
distance  the  whistle  was  sure  to  sound  and  we  drifted  inshore  to  tie 
up  for  hours  before  another  woodpile.  Sometimes  the  flat,  disappoint- 
ing banks  of  the  river  were  sheer  for  miles,  with  unbroken  stretches 
of  swamp  grass  six  feet  high  so  dense  it  did  not  seem  that  a snake 
could  have  wormed  its  way  through  it.  The  cerulean  blue  skies  were 
equal  to  any  of  Italy,  the  light  clouds  wandering  lazily  across  them 
sometimes  forming  in  battle  array  on  the  rim  of  the  horizon.  Here 
and  there  were  considerable  fields  of  sugarcane  about  a thatched  vil- 
lage ; but  the  vast  fertile  territory  was  almost  entirely  virgin  and 
uncleared.  One  morning  a cry  of  “ Caiman ! ” called  attention  to  a 
point  of  sand  on  which  lay  a score  of  alligators,  most  of  which  slid 
sluggishly  off  into  the  stream  as  we  approached.  Thereafter  we  had 
only  to  glance  along  the  banks  to  be  almost  sure  of  seeing  several. 

For  some  days  Hays  and  I had  made  up  the  deck  passenger  list 
unassisted,  sitting  through  our  meals  in  dignified  silence  with  some 
half-dozen  waiters  tc  miswait  on  11s  — when  we  could  get  their  at- 

13 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


tention  — headed  by  the  chief  steward,  who  never  tired  of  boasting 
that  he  had  once  made  cigars  in  the  shadow  of  Ancon  police  station. 
His  underlings  received  six  dollars  a month,  such  food  as  they  could 
forage,  and  the  right  to  wear  what  the  passage  of  years  had  left  of 
misfit  cotton  uniforms,  to  be  turned  in  at  the  end  of  the  trip.  They 
were  obliged  to  pay  for  all  breakages,  and  life  was  indeed  slender  with 
only  two  economical  gringos  as  passengers.  The  arrival  of  a new 
pasajero  was  in  consequence  always  an  exciting  event.  Five  days  up, 
in  the  region  known  as  the  Opon  country,  there  appeared  on  board  a 
native  trapper  of  wild  animals,  who  had  been  shot  through  the  face 
by  an  arrow  of  the  savage  Opones,  but  had  performed  the  rare  feat 
of  making  his  escape.  Colombia  includes  within  her  confines  several 
tribes  of  Indians  not  only  uninfluenced  by  the  government,  but  without 
an  inkling  of  its  existence.  The  Opones  live  far  back  along  the  tribu- 
taries of  the  Magdalena,  descending  them  only  in  certain  seasons,  and 
attacking  any  human  beings  they  come  upon.  Armed  with  a species 
of  archbow,  they  shoot  an  enormous  arrow  with  a point  of  iron-hard 
black  palm  barbed  both  ways,  that  can  neither  be  pushed  through  nor 
pulled  out  of  the  body  of  the  victim.  The  arrow  the  trapper  brought 
with  him  could  barely  be  forced  into  his  long  trunk  after  being  broken 
in  two,  and  five  cruel  barbs  still  remained  after  several  others  had  been 
cut  off  and  left  in  the  body  of  his  former  companion.  A few  weeks 
before,  he  reported,  a harmless  fellow  fishing  somewhat  back  from 
the  main  river  had  been  made  the  veritable  pincushion  of  thirty-two 
such  arrows.  The  trapper  had  it  that  the  Opones  were  cannibals, 
asserting  that  a recent  expedition  into  the  Opon  country  had  found  a 
Colombian  woman  of  good  family  who  was  being  fattened  in  a cage 
of  bamboo,  but  whom  the  savages  had  not  yet  eaten  because  of  a sus- 
picious sore  on  her  leg.  , 

Gradually  low  shadowy  mountains  began  to  appear  in  the  far 
blue  distance,  with  suggestions  of  higher  ones  in  the  clouds  behind 
them.  On  the  seventh  day  a long  rugged  chain,  the  Sierra  de  Peraja 
in  the  Province  of  Santander,  had  grown  so  near  that  separate  peaks 
and  suggestions  of  villages  could  be  picked  out  of  the  sunlit  distance. 
Next  morning  we  were  half  surrounded  by  deep  blue  ranges,  and  the 
banks  were  broad  natural  meadows  with  hundreds  of  cattle  knee-deep 
in  rich  green  grass.  Magnificent  spreading  trees  now  stood  out  against 
the  sky  and  ranges.  The  nights  had  grown  so  cool  that  we  took  to 
sleeping  in  our  “ stateroom  ” — with  barely  room  enough  left  to  sneeze 
when  our  cots  had  been  dragged  in.  Here  we  began  to  go  aground 

14 


UP  TO  BOGOTA 


frequently,  for  the  tendency  of  the  Magdalena  is  to  spread  out  more 
and  more  as  her  sandy  banks  keep  falling  into  the  river.  At  our  speed 
the  experience  was  hardly  hair-raising,  and  generally  in  the  course  of 
a few  hours  the  “ Alicia  ” worked  herself  loose  again.  There  were 
almost  no  other  water  craft,  except  an  occasional  canoa,  a dug-out  log 
crawling  along  the  extreme  lower  edge  of  the  forest  wall.  Now  and 
then  we  passed  large  balsas,  rafts  of  hundreds  of  immense  cedar  logs, 
with  the  Colombian  flag  at  the  prow  and  the  crew  camped  aft  with 
mat  beds,  primitive  kitchens,  and  sometimes  their  women  and  a numer- 
ous progeny.  Great  trees,  which  the  captain  called  ceibas,  rose  slim 
and  clear  more  than  a hundred  feet,  to  end  in  a parasol  tuft  of 
branches.  Frequently  a flock  of  parrakeets  screamed  noisily  by  over- 
head. In  places  we  crawled  along  between  sheer  sand  banks,  gigantic 
trees  of  the  dense  forest  hanging  on  the  brink  of  miniature  Culebra 
slides  as  the  river  washed  under  them. 

Higher  still  the  stream  grew  so  shallow  that  we  could  “ march  ” 
only  by  day,  anchoring  at  dark.  One  night  we  tied  up  to  the  bank  on 
an  inner  curve  of  the  river,  where  the  forest  cut  off  the  breeze  com- 
pletely and  left  us  to  toss  in  our  cots  until  dawn.  Its  first  glimmer  of 
light  showed  that  we  had  reached  Pureto  Berrio,  where  a little  narrow- 
gage  starts  — I use  the  word  advisedly,  for  it  never  gets  there  — for 
Medellin,  second  city  of  Colombia.  The  “ port  ” itself  suspended 
whatever  it  was  in  the  habit  of  doing  to  stare  at  us  in  long  silent  rows 
from  the  doorways.  Its  male  population  not  only  wore  no  shirt  but 
did  not  even  trouble  to  conceal  that  fact  by  buttoning  its  tattered  sun- 
bleached  jacket.  All  the  natives  seemed  obsessed  with  the  notion  that, 
as  gringos,  we  could  not  speak  Spanish.  As  often  as  we  addressed 
one,  though  our  Castilian  vocabulary  was  as  ample  and  our  pronuncia- 
tion far  less  slovenly  than  his  own,  he  refused  to  believe  his  senses 
until  the  sensation  had  been  several  times  repeated. 

We  were  off  again  by  noon.  It  had  been  raining  in  the  highlands 
beyond  and  the  visibly  rising  river  was  half  covered  with  patches  of 
thick  scum.  Now  and  then  it  bore  by  on  its  swift  silent  surface  a 
fragment  of  forest  snatched  from  somewhere  above.  We  were  now 
some  hundreds  of  feet  above  sea-level,  and  the  forest  air  was  fragrant 
and  unfevered.  All  day  long  nothing  but  forest  trailed  by.  We 
passed  timber  enough  in  a week  to  supply  the  world  for  a century  and 
rich  soil  enough  to  feed  a large  section  of  it  permanently.  But  only 
very  rarely  did  a little  bamboo  hut,  roofed  with  leaves,  dot  the 
monotony  of  virgin  nature.  The  river  had  narrowed  down  to  a placid 

15 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


powerful  stream;  the  weather  was  peerless,  though  an  almost  invisible 
gnat  began  to  make  life  less  motionless. 

In  the  purple  gloaming  a forest-built  village  of  some  size  stood  out 
more  picturesquely  than  usual  on  the  nose  of  a land  billow  jutting 
forth  and  falling  sheer  into  the  river,  only  to  have  the  interminable 
forest  swallow  it  up  again.  Yet  there  were  signs  that  we  were  ap- 
proaching somewhere  or  other.  Hays  sat  with  his  feet  on  the  rail, 
discoursing  on  the  relative  merits  of  Turgeniev  and  Galdos,  the  point 
of  his  “ last  ” cigar  glowing  in  the  darkness,  when  the  captain  passed 
with  a package  wrapped  in  the  customary  inofficiency  of  Latin- America. 

“ Here,  I used  to  be  one,”  said  Hays,  reaching  for  the  bundle  and 
rearranging  it. 

“Used  to  be  what?”  I asked,  as  he  handed  it  back. 

“ I was  walking  along  the  street  of  — of  — well  I don’t  remember 
the  stage  setting,  but  it  must  have  been  in  the  States  and  a long  time 
ago,”  he  began,  lighting  a second  cigar  from  the  butt  of  the  first,  “ for 
I know  I had  n’t  been  to  sea  or  in  the  army  yet,  when  I saw  a sign  in 
a window,  ‘ Bundle  Wrapper  Wanted.’  I had  to  pass  up  a hundred 
per  as  outside  man  for  a medicine  faker  to  take  it,  but  it  was  some- 
thing new  and  . . .”  and  he  rambled  off  into  one  of  those  experience 
sketches  which,  jumping  erratically  over  the  face  of  the  globe,  fre- 
quently enlivened  the  voyage. 

In  the  last  hours  of  June  we  bumped  against  the  wharf  of  La 
Dorada,  several  hundred  yards  of  tinware  building  along  a sloping 
river  front  with  a childish  attempt  at  paving,  its  main  street  a forlorn 
pathway  near  the  water’s  edge,  dying  away  in  the  forest- jungle  on 
either  hand.  Here  we  took  our  leave  of  the  “ Alicia,”  for  cataracts 
make  this  the  end  of  the  run  for  steamers  plying  the  lower  Magda- 
lena. Next  afternoon  a train  even  more  diminutive  than  that  to  Cala- 
mar  wound  away  in  a half  circle  into  the  forest,  with  now  and  then 
glimpses  of  hazy,  far-off  Andean  ranges,  and  three  hours  later  set  us 
down  in  Honda.  To  our  surprise  we  found  it  a city,  the  first  since 
Cartagena,  as  aged  and  intricate,  as  full  of  its  own  local  color,  includ- 
ing many  blind  and  leprous  beggars,  as  any  town  of  old  Spain.  Piled 
close  along  the  Magdalena,  here  a series  of  rocky  rapids,  it  is  divided 
by  a gurgling  tributary  across  which  three  picturesque  bridges  fling 
themselves.  Scores  of  aged  stone  buildings,  quaint  walls,  and  steep 
streets  of  century-old  pavements  give  it  an  air  reminiscent  of  Bruges 
or  Niirnberg,  or  of  some  of  the  ancient  towns  of  Mexico.  Its  narrow 
streets  are  crowded  with  laden  mules  and  sunbrowned  arrieros  of  both 

16 


A village  on  the  banks  of  the  Magdalena 


Jirardot;  end  of  the  steamer  line  and  beginning  of  the  railroad  to  Bogota 


UP  TO  BOGOTA 


sexes ; its  patios  seem  primeval  forests,  and  mountain  ranges  cut  its 
horizon  close  off  in  every  direction.  A muleteer  pointed  out  to  us  the 
ancient  trail  to  Bogota  where  it  crossed  a high  red  bridge  and  climbed 
steeply  away  up  one  of  the  natural  walls  of  the  town  on  the  way  to 
Facatativa  on  the  lofty  plateau  above.  But  for  our  baggage  we  should 
have  struck  out  for  the  capital  on  this  route  of  centuries. 

We  went  on  by  rail  in  the  morning.  Every  woman  and  girl  in  the 
car  — not  to  mention  Hays  — was  smoking  the  jet-black  cigars  of  the 
region.  The  little  engine  with  its  top-heavy  smokestack  consumed 
wood  as  gluttonously  as  the  “ Alicia,”  and  halted  even  more  often  to 
replenish  its  supply.  Colombians  fancy  railroads  will  work  the  com- 
plete regeneration  of  their  torpid  country,  but  such  as  we  had  seen 
were  only  miniature  samples  of  the  real  thing,  of  slight  practical  value 
even  were  they  extended  all  over  the  republic.  The  natives  had  no 
notion,  however,  that  the  word  train  did  not  stand  for  the  same  tiny 
contraptions  the  world  over  as  that  to  which  they  applied  it. 

On  all  sides  were  enormous  stadiums  of  mountains,  not  yet  high  but 
already  bulking  and  rock-strewn.  Drought  had  left  the  country 
desert-dry  and  fine  sand  drifted  in  and  deposited  itself  upon  us  in 
shrouds,  as  in  crossing  Nevada.  The  landscape  suggested  a cross  be- 
tween the  tropics  and  a western  prairie  choking  for  rain,  as  did  even 
the  towns  with  their  frontiersman  disarray,  their  burros,  mules  and 
broken-down  horses  drooping  in  any  patch  of  shade.  Tattered  boys 
and  diseased  loafers  swarmed  into  the  cars  at  every  stop,  drinking 
from  the  water  jars,  washing  in  the  bowls  of  the  first-class  coach, 
making  themselves  completely  at  home  without  a suggestion  of  pro- 
test from  the  trainmen.  Even  were  there  laws  against  such  actions, 
the  languid  officials  would  have  lacked  the  moral  courage  to  enforce 
them. 

The  railway  ended  at  Beltran,  where  we  boarded  the  steamer 
“ Caribe.”  A dreary,  sun-baked  collection  of  sheds  and  a few  choking 
huts  made  up  the  town,  completely  surrounded  by  desert,  with  plenty 
of  bushy  trees,  but  a desert  for  all  that.  The  wind  that  swept  across 
the  steamer  at  her  mooring  was  not  the  cool  one  of  the  lower  Magda- 
lena, but  one  laden  with  red-hot  sands  that  stung  the  cheeks  like  tiny 
insects.  When  the  passengers  had  gulped  their  almaerzo,  the  dishes 
were  piled  in  the  alleyway,  where  beggars  and  gaunt  boys  from  the 
shore  came  to  claw  around  in  them,  after  which  they  were  roughly 
half-washed.  There  is  a fetching  democracy  about  the  road  to  Bogota. 
He  who  travels  it,  be  he  vagrant  or  man  of  wealth,  must  go  through 

1 7 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


the  same  uninviting  experiences.  It  speaks  poorly  of  Colombians  that 
they  still  endure  this  medieval  method  of  travel  from  the  outside 
world  to  their  capital.  Wealthy  bogotanos  journey  to  Europe  in 
luxurious  style  — once  they  are  on  the  ocean.  It  would  seem  wiser 
for  them  to  return  steerage  and  gradually  accustom  themselves  to  what 
they  must  endure  from  the  landing  in  their  own  country  to  the  arrival 
in  Bogota. 

All  day  long  we  sat  in  the  sand-burning  winds  of  Beltran  while 
barefoot  and  half-naked  stevedores  dribbled  down  the  steep  bank  with 
all  manner  of  cargo.  There  was  barbed  wire  from  Massachusetts, 
corrugated  iron  from  Pittsburg,  boxed  street-car  lines  that  clattered 
and  crashed  as  they  fell,  and  finally,  though  by  no  means  last,  four 
pianos  from  Germany  that  were  rolled  heels  over  head  down  the  long 
stony  bank.  Although  we  had  real  cabin  tickets  this  time,  neither  of 
us  had  influence  enough  to  get  a cabin.  We  dragged  our  cots  out  on 
the  open  deck  and,  indifferent  to  social  rules,  marched  through  the 
multitude  in  our  pajamas.  This  turned  out  to  be  entirely  comme  il 
faut,  for  even  the  son  of  a recent  president  of  Colombia  soon  appeared 
similarly  clad  and  strolled  about  the  deck  chattering  with  his  fellow- 
passengers  of  both  sexes,  as  nonchalantly  as  if  in  full  dress. 

We  were  not  off  until  dawn,  into  which  the  volcano  Ruiz,  first  of 
the  long  row  of  snow-clad  fire-vents  of  the  Andes  which  we  hoped  in 
time  to  see  disappear  over  our  shoulders,  thrust  its  aged  head.  Rock 
cliffs  along  the  banks  recalled  the  Lorelei.  Fields  of  corn  undulated 
like  wind-snatched  hair  on  the  summits  of  rounded  hills,  at  the  base 
of  which  sweltered  the  banana  groves  of  the  tropics.  As  the  sun  was 
setting  we  passed  a chorro  at  the  foot  of  a low  range  around  which 
the  river  had  swept  in  a half-circle  so  many  centuries  that  its  bank 
-was  a sheer  rock  wall  surely  sixty  feet  high.  The  “ Caribe,”  with 
the  nose  of  a washtub,  panted  for  life  against  the  current,  spitting 
showers  of  live  coals  from  her  wood  fires,  seeming  several  times  about 
to  give  up  the  attempt  in  despair.  But  she  gained  the  calmer  water 
above  at  last  and  soon  after  dark  landed  us  in  Jirardot. 

We  spent  the  Fourth  of  July  in  Jirardot.  Not  by  choice,  but  because 
the  train  to  the  capital  leaves  only  three  times  a week.  The  town 
swelters  by  day  on  the  edge  of  the  curving  river,  here  hardly  fifty 
yards  wide,  where  for  more  than  a mile  stretches  a vista  of  donkeys 
laden  with  kegs  of  water,  bands  of  women,  all  more  or  less  African 
in  ancestry,  bathing,  washing,  and  incessantly  smoking  immense  mis- 
shapen cigars,  as  do  even  the  children  of  both  sexes  that  paddle  stark 

18 


UP  TO  BOGOTA 


naked  about  the  bank  in  complete  immunity  to  the  blazing  sun.  The 
place  seemed  the  headquarters  of  contented  poverty.  At  least  half 
the  inhabitants  either  had  not  enough  sun-bleached  garments  to  com- 
pletely conceal  their  dusky  skins,  or  had  laid  them  away  for  more  gala 
occasions.  Beggars,  halt,  blind,  misformed  and  idiotic,  were  almost 
as  numerous  as  in  similar  towns  of  India.  Even  the  less  miserable 
inhabitants  were  dull,  neurasthenic,  utterly  devoid  of  energy,  anemics 
with  incessant  smoking,  bad  food,  and  worse  habits,  given  to  living 
entirely  according  to  their  appetites  and  never  according  to  will  power 
and  reason. 

It  was  not  without  misgiving  that  we  turned  our  faces  toward 
Bogota  next  morning.  The  crowd  which  the  train  from  the  plateau 
had  landed  the  night  before  had  been  half  hidden  under  the  rugs, 
blankets,  and  overcoats  they  carried,  and  not  a native  of  Jirardot  could 
speak  of  the  capital  without  visibly  shivering,  some  even  crossing 
themselves  as  often  as  they  heard  it  mentioned.  The  train  left  at  sun- 
rise. By  the  rules  of  the  line  — the  “ Ferrocarril  de  Jirardot  ’’ — we 
were  obliged  to  check  our  baggage  containing  all  extra  clothing.  For 
the  first  few  hours  we  were  surrounded  by  mountains,  though  still  on 
a slightly  rising  plain  between  them.  The  land  appeared  fertile  and 
there  was  considerable  Indian  corn,  yet  it  was  surprising  to  find  here 
in  the  capacious  New  World  such  swarms  of  beggars  as  in  Egypt  or 
India.  The  population  along  the  way,  increasingly  Indian  in  blood, 
was  extraordinarily  slow-witted.  In  a window  near  us  sat  a com- 
mercial traveler  who  tossed  at  every  one  he  caught  sight  of  along  the 
way  a pictorial  advertisement  of  an  American  panacea.  The  tail  of 
the  train  was  always  well  past  them  before  a single  one  gathered  his 
wits  sufficiently  to  pick  up  the  treasure. 

Near  noon  we  were  ourselves  picked  out  by  a mountain-climbing 
engine,  made  in  Schenectady,  its  boiler  well  forward  and  flanked  by 
the  water  tanks,  a small  upright  coalbin  behind.  As  we  began  a series 
of  switchbacks,  I caught  a breath  of  virile  white  man’s  air  for  the  first 
time  in  a half  year,  and  the  taste  of  it  was  so  delicious  that  the  sensa- 
tion reached  to  my  tingling  toes.  Regularly  the  vista  of  gouged-out 
valleys  surrounded  by  rough-hewn,  cool,  blue  ranges  spread  to  greater 
distances.  Passengers  began  to  turn  red-nosed,  to  put  on  overcoats, 
blankets,  rugs,  ponchos,  gloves,  to  wrap  towels  about  their  necks.  To 
me  the  temperature  was  delightful,  but  Flays,  who  had  been  long  years 
in  the  tropics,  took  to  applying  other  adjectives. 

Now  the  landscape  of  meadows  and  grazing  cattle  backed  by  tower- 

19 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


ing  mountains  suggested  Switzerland.  Beyond  the  one  tunnel  of  the 
line  we  entered  an  immense  valley  walled  by  row  upon  row  of  blue 
ranges.  Higher  still,  the  bleak,  stony  highlands  resembled  a more 
rugged  Scotland  in  late  October,  though  cultivation  was  almost  general 
and  roads  numerous.  It  struck  us  as  strange  that  human  beings  should 
shiver  and  toil  for  a scant  livelihood  in  such  surroundings  when  a 
day’s  walk  would  bring  them  to  perpetual  summer  and  nature’s  well 
filled  larder.  A plant  must  remain  where  it  chances  to  be  born,  but 
why  should  man  also? 

By  four,  the  train  had  finished  its  task  of  lifting  its  breathless 
passengers  into  the  thin  air  of  Facatativa,  and  scores  of  half-frozen 
barefoot  children  and  ragged  adults  dismally  wandered  the  stony 
streets.  A policeman  muffled  to  the  ears  assured  us  with  what  seemed 
a suggestion  of  pride  that  Facatativa  was  even  colder  than  Bogota,  for 
which  Hays  gave  fervent  thanks.  Evidently  the  heat  of  the  tropics 
was  yet  in  my  blood,  for  I still  felt  comfortable. 

An  hour  later  we  were  speeding  across  a broad  plateau  by  the 
“ Ferrocarril  de  la  Sabana,”  a government  railroad  equipped  with  real 
trains  of  American  cars.  All  the  languor  and  ragged  indifference  of 
the  tropics  seemed  to  have  been  left  forever  behind.  The  conductor 
was  as  business-like  — and  as  light  in  color  — as  any  in  our  own  land. 
We  stopped  briefly  at  towns  boasting  all  the  adjuncts  of  civilized  life, 
somehow  dragged  up  to  these  lofty  realms.  Here  was  a country  built 
from  the  center  outwardly;  the  nearer  we  came  to  its  capital,  the 
further  we  left  the  world  behind,  the  more  modern  and  well  furnished 
did  it  become.  It  recalled  fanciful  tales  of  men  who,  toiling  for  weeks 
through  unknown  wildernesses,  suddenly  burst  forth  upon  an  un- 
known valley  filled  with  all  the  splendors  of  an  ancient  kingdom. 

Yet  we  could  not  but  wonder  why,  once  they  had  reached  this  lofty 
plateau,  the  discoverers  had  not  halted  and  built  their  city,  instead 
of  marching  far  back  across  it  to  the  foot  of  the  enclosing  range.  A 
full  thirty-five  miles  the  train  fled  across  the  sabana,  an  immense  plain 
in  appearance  like  one  of  our  north  in  early  April,  intersected  here 
and  there  by  barbed-wire  fences.  Broad  yellow  fields  of  mustard 
appeared,  spread,  and  disappeared  behind  us.  Great  droves  of  cattle 
frisked  about  in  the  autumn  air  as  if  to  keep  warm.  Well-built  coun- 
try dwellings  flashed  by,  stony  and  bare  in  setting,  but  embellished 
with  huge  paintings  of  landscapes  on  the  walls  under  the  veranda 
roofs.  The  sun  had  barely  smiled  upon  us  since  noon.  Now  as  the 
day  declined  I began  to  grow  cold,  bitter  cold,  colder  than  I had  been 

20 


Indian  girls  and  women  are  the  chief  dray-horses  of  the  Colombian  capital 


UP  TO  BOGOTA 


since  descending  from  the  Mexican  plateau  seven  months  before, 
while  Hays’  hat  brim  shook  with  his  shivering.  Our  fellow-passen- 
gers looked  like  summer  excursionists  unexpectedly  caught  in  straw 
hats  by  grim,  relentless  winter.  Then  as  evening  descended  the  plain 
came  abruptly  to  an  end,  and  at  the  very  foot  of  a forbidding  black 
mountain  range  spread  a cold,  smokeless  city  of  bulking  domes  and 
towers.  We  had  reached  at  last,  after  eighteen  days  of  travel,  the 
most  isolated  of  South  American  capitals. 


21 


CHAPTER  II 


THE  CLOISTERED  CITY 

OUR  entrance  into  Bogota  was  not  exactly  what  we  had 
planned  or  anticipated.  The  crowd  that  filled  the  station 
and  its  adjacent  streets  in  honor  of  the  thrice-weekly  linking 
with  the  outside  world  was  dressed  like  an  American  city  in  February, 
except  that  here  black  was  more  general  and  choking  high  collars  and 
foppish  canes  far  more  in  evidence.  Wherefore,  seeing  two  men  of 
foreign  aspect,  visibly  shivering  in  their  strange  feather-weight  uni- 
forms, descending  upon  them,  the  pulsating  throng  could  be  dispersed 
only  with  difficulty,  and  excited  urchins  raced  beside  the  horse  car 
that  set  us  down  at  last  before  a recommended  hotel.  Hays,  who  was 
nothing  if  not  self-conscious,  as  well  as  tropical  blooded,  lost  no  time 
in  putting  on  every  wool  garment  his  baggage  contained  and  dived 
under  four  blankets  vowing  never  to  be  seen  again  in  public. 

We  seemed  to  have  reached  the  very  center  of  this  incongruous 
civilization  of  the  isolated  fastnesses  of  the  Andes.  Our  suite  took  up 
an  entire  second-story  corner  of  the  hotel.  There  were  carpets  in 
which  our  feet  sank  half  out  of  sight,  capacious  upholstered  chairs, 
divans  in  every  corner,  tables  that  might  have  graced  a French 
chateau,  pier  glass  mirrors,  gleaming  chandeliers,  lamps  with  double 
burners,  in  addition  to  electric  lights.  Our  parlor,  its  huge  windows 
resplendent  with  lace  curtains,  opened  on  a balcony  overhanging  the 
street,  as  did  also  the  adjoining  bedroom,  as  richly  furnished  and  with 
two  old-fashioned  colonial  bedsteads  heaped  high  with  mattresses, 
their  many  blankets  covered  with  glossy  vicuna  hides.  We  were  far 
indeed  from  the  frontiersman  steamers  of  the'  Magdalena.  When  the 
hunger  of  the  highlands  asserted  itself,  we  sneaked  down  to  a luxurious 
diningroom  to  find  the  menu  and  service  equal  to  that  of  some 
travelers’  palace  on  the  Champs  Elysees.  The  sumptuous  breakfast 
that  a maid  placed  beside  our  beds  next  morning  was  a humorous  con- 
trast to  those  we  had  endured  on  the  “ Alicia.”  Yet  all  these  luxuries, 
borne  to  this  lofty  isolation  by  methods  the  most  primitive  known  to 
modern  days,  were  ours  at  the  paltry  rate  of  $1.50  a day.  Truly,  the 
cost  of  high  living  had  not  yet  reached  the  altitude  of  Bogota. 

22 


THE  CLOISTERED  CITY 


It  was  evident,  however,  that  if  we  were  to  live  here  as  anything  but 
public  curiosities  we  must  patronize  a clothing  store.  The  Zone  cos- 
tume, so  splendidly  adapted  to  our  future  plans,  was,  unfortunately, 
original  for  bogotanos;  and  nowhere  does  originality  of  garb  cause 
greater  furore  than  in  the  mountain-cloistered  capital  of  Colombia. 
When  we  summoned  up  courage  to  venture  forth,  Hays  dodged  into 
the  first  tailor  shop  that  crossed  his  path,  and  instantly  agreed  to  take 
whatever  happened  to  be  offered  him,  at  any  price  the  tailor  chose  to 
inflict  — and  returned  to  remain  in  hiding  for  the  ensuing  twenty-four 
hours  until  the  articles  were  altered.  Meanwhile  I sallied  forth  from 
a ready-made  establishment,  inconspicuous  in  a native  shirt  that  came 
perilously  near  being  born  a pajama  and  a heavy,  temporarily  black, 
suit  of  “ cashmere  ” with  a misgiving  tightness  across  the  trousers. 

On  second  thought  it  was  not  surprising  that  this  far  away  city  of 
the  Andes  should  be  so  exacting  in  dress.  Virtually  cut  off  from  the 
world,  it  was  supremely  eager  to  appear  cosmopolitan.  The  result  is 
a tailor’s  paradise.  No  one  who  aspires  to  be  ranked  among  the 
gente  decente  ever  dreams  of  permitting  himself  to  be  seen  in  public 
lacking  any  detail  of  the  equipment,  from  derby  to  patent  leathers,  that 
makes  up  the  bogotano’s  mental  picture  of  a Parisian  boulevardier. 
At  first  we  took  this  multitude  of  faultlessly  dressed  men  to  mean  that 
the  city  rolled  in  wealth.  As  time  wrent  on  many  a dandy  of  fashion 
we  had  fancied  a bank  president,  or  the  son  of  some  prince  of  finance, 
turned  out  to  be  a side-street  barber,  or  the  keeper  of  a four-by-six 
book-stall,  if  not  indeed  without  even  so  legitimate  a source  of  income. 
It  is  due,  no  doubt,  to  some  misinterpretation  of  the  European  fashion 
sheets  that  the  main  street  corners  were  habitually  blocked  long  before 
noon  by  men  and  youths  in  Prince  Alberts,  who  spent  the  greater  part 
of  the  day  leaning  with  Parisian  nonchalance  on  silver-headed  canes. 

The  women  of  the  better  class,  on  the  other  hand,  are  never  seen 
disguised  as  Parisians  except  on  rare  gala  occasions.  At  morning 
mass,  or  in  their  circumspect  tours  of  shopping,  they  appear  swathed 
from  head  to  foot  in  the  black  manto,  a shawl-like  thing  of  thin 
texture  wound  about  head  and  body  to  the  hips  and  leaving  only  a bit 
of  the  face  and  a bare  glimpse  of  their  blue-black  hair  visible.  To  us 
the  costume  was  pleasing  in  its  simplicity.  Bogotanos,  however,  com- 
plain that  it  is  triste  — sad,  and  in  time  we  too  came  to  have  that  im- 
pression, as  if  the  sex  had  gone  perpetually  into  mourning  for  the 
ways  of  its  male  relatives. 

The  great  underlying  mass  of  the  population  has  no  requirements  in 

23 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


the  matter  of  dress.  In  general  the  gente  del  pueblo  — the  “men  of 
the  people  ” — wear  shoddy  trousers  of  indeterminate  hue,  alpargatas, 
— hemp  soles  held  in  place  by  strips  of  canvas  — without  socks,  a 
soiled  “ panama  ” always  very  much  out  of  place  in  this  climate,  and, 
covering  all  else,  a ruana,  or  native-woven  blanket  with  a hole  in  the 
center  through  which  to  thrust  the  head.  Their  women  rarely  wear 
black,  but  simple  gowns  of  some  light  color,  at  least  on  Sundays,  after 
which  its  whiteness  decreases.  They  go  commonly  bareheaded,  often 
barefooted,  and  always  stockingless.  Every  scene  from  street  to 
Cathedral  shrine  is  enlivened  by  the  bare  legs  of  women  and  girls 
often  decidedly  attractive  in  appearance  — to  those  who  have  no  great 
prejudice  for  the  bath. 

To  be  nearer  the  center  of  activities  we  had  taken  a room  in  the 
third  story  of  the  municipal  building,  on  the  site  of  the  palace  of  the 
viceroys.  Down  below  lay  the  main  plaza  of  Colombia,  Tenerani’s 
celebrated  statue  of  Bolivar  in  its  center,  the  still  unfinished  capitol 
building  cutting  it  off  on  the  right.  Across  the  square  we  could  look 
in  at  the  door  of  the  ancient  Cathedral  — and  shake  our  fists  at  its 
constantly  clanging  bells.  Beyond,  much  of  the  city  spread  out  be- 
fore us,  the  thatched  huts  of  misery  spilling  a little  way  up  the  foot 
of  the  dismal  black  range  that  filled  in  the  rest  of  the  picture. 

The  altitude  of  Bogota  — it  stands  8630  feet  above  the  level  of 
the  sea  — seldom  fails  to  impress  itself  upon  the  newcomer.  Many 
travelers  do  not  risk  the  sudden  ascent  from  Jirardot  to  the  capital 
in  a single  day,  but  stop  over  between  trains  at  a halfway  town. 
During  the  first  days  I was  content  to  march  slowly  a few  blocks  up 
and  down  her  slightly  inclined  streets,  and  even  then  found  myself 
with  the  faint  third  cousin  of  a headache,  several  mild  attacks  of 
nose  bleed,  and  a soreness  of  all  the  body  as  if  from  undue  pressure 
of  the  blood.  Until  the  first  effects  wear  away,  energy  is  at  its 
lowest  ebb  and  time  passes  on  leaden  wings.  The  change  in  mood 
is  as  marked  as  in  the  character  of  the  permanent  inhabitants.  From 
the  moment  of  his  arrival  the  traveler  feels  again  that  foresighted, 
looking-to-the-future  attitude  toward  life  common  to  the  temperate 
zone.  All  the  light,  airy,  gay  and  wasteful  ways  of  Panama  and 
the  tropics  fade  away  like  the  memory  of  some  former  existence, 
and  it  is  easy  to  understand  why  the  bogotano  is  quite  different  in 
temperament  from  the  languid  inhabitants  along  the  Magdalena. 
Unlike  many  regions  of  high  altitude,  however,  Bogota  is  not  a 
“ nervous  ” city.  There  are  lower  places  in  Mexico,  for  instance, 

24 


THE  CLOISTERED  CITY 


where  the  nerves  seem  always  at  a tension.  Here  we  felt  serene  and 
unexcited  all  day  long  as  in  the  first  hours  of  waking  from  long 
refreshing  sleep. 

Except  in  the  actual  sunshine,  the  air  was  raw  even  at  noon.  The 
wind  from  off  the  backing  range  or  across  the  sabana  cut  through 
our  garments  as  if  they  were  of  cheesecloth.  The  thermometer  falls 
much  lower  in  other  climes,  but  here  artificial  heat  is  unknown,  and 
a more  penetrating  cold  is  inconceivable.  By  night  the  bogotano 
wears  an  overcoat  of  tbe  greatest  obtainable  thickness,  he  dines  and 
goes  to  the  theater  in  a temperature  that  would  make  outdoor  New 
York  in  early  November  seem  cozy  and  hospitable.  Well  dressed 
men  in  gloves  and  overcoats  and  women  in  furs  walking  briskly  across 
the  square  below  our  window  on  their  way  from  the  electric  street 
cars  to  the  theater  or  the  “ Circo  Keller,”  gave  the  scene  quite  the 
appearance  of  a similar  one  in  an  American  town  in  the  first  days  of 
winter.  Yet  this  was  July  and  we  were  barely  five  degrees  from  the 
equator.  Beside  us  lay  the  latest  newspapers  from  New  York,  half 
way  to  the  north  pole,  bristling  with  such  items  as:  “Wanted  — 

Cool  rooms  for  the  summer  months.”  “ Four  Dead  of  Heat  Pros- 
tration.” It  is  a peculiar  climate.  Flowers  — of  some  Arctic  species 
— bloom  perennially,  and  the  poorer  people,  inured  to  it  from  birth, 
seem  to  thrive  in  bare  legs  and  summer  garb.  Frost  is  virtually  un- 
known, not  because  the  temperature  does  not  warrant  it,  but  because 
what  would  be  frost  elsewhere  evaporates  in  the  thin  air.  Once  the 
sun  has  set,  nothing  seems  quite  so  attractive,  whatever  the  plans 
made  by  day,  as  to  read  for  an  hour  huddled  in  all  spare  clothing,  then 
to  throw  open  the  windows  and  dive  under  as  many  blankets  as  a 
Minnesota  farmer  in  January.  The  bogotano  does  not,  of  course, 
believe  in  open  windows.  Though  he  scorns  a fire  — or  has  never 
thought  to  build  one  — he  has  a quaking  fear  of  the  night  air,  against 
which  he  charges  a score  of  diseases  headed  by  the  dreaded  pneu- 
monia of  high  altitudes.  Those  who  venture  out  at  night  habitually 
hold  a handkerchief  over  mouth  and  nostrils.  Yet  at  least  this  can 
be  said,  that  nowhere  is  sleep,  if  properly  tucked  in,  more  sound  and 
refreshing. 

Within  a week  we  found  ourselves  acclimated  — or  should  I say 
altitudinated  — and  took  to  exploring  the  city  more  thoroughly.  The 
air  was  still  noticeably  thin,  but  there  was  enough  of  it  to  furnish  the 
lung-fuel  even  for  the  five  mile  stroll  up  to  the  natural  stone  gate- 
way where  the  highway  to  the  east  clambers  away  through  a notch 

25 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


and  begins  the  descent  to  Venezuela.  Looking  down  upon  it  from 
here,  the  misinformed  traveler  might  easily  fancy  the  broad  sabana 
the  sea-level  plains  of  some  northern  clime,  never  guessing  that  forty 
miles  to  the  west  the  world  falls  abruptly  away  into  the  torrid  zone. 
For  Bogota  is  chiefly  remarkable  for  its  location.  Taken  somewhere 
else  it  would  be  like  many  another  city  of  Spanish  ancestry.  Its 
streets  are  singularly  alike,  wide,  straight,  a few  paved  in  macadam, 
more  in  rough  cobbles,  many  grass-grown  and  all  with  a central  line 
of  flagstones  worn  smooth  by  the  feet  of  generations  of  carriers.  The 
chiefly  two-story  houses  toe  sidewalks  so  narrow  that  two  can  seldom 
pass  abreast,  and  for  those  who  know  Spain  or  her  former  colonies 
there  is  nothing  unusual  in  the  architecture.  The  streets  cross  each 
other  at  solemn  right  angles,  and  those  which  do  not  fade  away  on 
the  plain  fetch  sharply  up  against  the  rusty  black  range  that  backs 
the  city.  The  system  of  street  numbering  is  excellent,  that  of  the 
houses  clumsy,  and  the  former  is  marred  by  the  habit  of  the  volatile 
government  in  changing  familiar  names  as  often  as  some  new  or  for- 
gotten patriot  is  called  to  its  attention.  Thus  the  Plaza  San  Augustin 
had  been  the  Plaza  Ayacucho  up  to  a short  time  before  our  arrival, 
yet  before  we  left  it  had  become  the  Plaza  Sucre  in  honor  of  a new 
statue  of  that  general  unveiled  on  Colombia’s  Independence  Day,  July 
twentieth.  In  like  manner  the  Plaza  de  Egipto  was  transformed 
before  our  very  eyes  into  the  Plaza  de  Maza.  This  weakness  for 
honoring  new  heroes  is  characteristic  of  the  whole  country.  Not  only 
are  its  provinces  frequently  renamed,  but  in  the  short  century  since 
its  independence,  the  nation  itself  has  basked  under  a half  dozen 
titles, — to  wit:  “La  Gran  Colombia”;  “ Nueva  Granada”;  “ Con- 

federacion  Granadina  ”;  “ Estados  Unidos  de  Nueva  Granada  ”;  “ Es- 
tados  Unidos  de  Colombia  ” ; and,  since  1885,  “ Republica  de  Colom- 
bia ” — and  there  are  evidences  that  it  is  not  yet  entirely  satisfied. 

It  is  less  in  its  material  aspects  than  in  the  ways  of  its  population 
that  the  traveler  finds  Bogota  interesting.  About  every  inhabitant 
hovers  a glamour  of  romance.  Either  he  has  always  lived  in  this 
miniature  world,  or  he  has  at  least  once  made  the  laborious  journey 
up  to  it.  The  vast  majority  are  born,  live,  and  die  here  in  their  lofty 
isolation.  Shut  away  by  weeks  of  wilderness  from  the  outside  world, 
alone  with  its  own  little  trials  and  triumphs,  it  seems  something  long 
ago  left  behind  up  here  under  the  chilly  stars  by  a receding  wave  of 
civilization.  Small  wonder  its  people  consider  their  city  the  center 
of  the  universe.  Those  who  travel  a little  way  out  into  the  world 

26 


THE  CLOISTERED  CITY 


see  nothing  to  compare  with  it;  the  scant  minority  that  reach  Paris 
are  credited  with  fervid  imaginations,  if  indeed  the  picture  of  what 
they  have  seen  is  not  effaced  during  the  long  toilsome  journey  back 
to  their  own  beloved  capital.  Perhaps  no  other  city  of  to-day  is  more 
nearly  what  a newly  discovered  one  must  have  been  to  the  happy 
explorers  of  earlier  times.  Now  and  then  there  comes  upon  the 
traveler  the  regret  that  it  is  not  entirely  cut  off  instead  of  nine-tenths 
so.  A region  fitted  for  the  development  of  its  own  customs,  had  it 
been  left  to  its  aboriginal  Chibchas  it  might  have  evolved  a civiliza- 
tion entirely  its  own,  altogether  different,  and  not  this  rather  crumpled 
copy  of  familiar  world  capitals. 

Bogota  is  decidedly  a white  man’s  city.  Indeed  there  is  hardly 
another  of  its  size  south  of  the  Canadian  border  in  which  the  per- 
centage of  pure  white  complexions  is  higher.  On  rare  occasions  a 
negro  who  had  drifted  up  from  the  hot  lands  below  sat  huddled  in 
the  main  plaza  in  all  the  blankets  and  ruanas  he  could  borrow,  but 
his  face  was  sure  soon  to  be  numbered  among  the  missing.  Brunettes 
predominate,  of  course,  but  blonds  are  by  no  means  rare.  The  boot- 
black  who  served  us  now  and  then  was  a decided  towhead.  Red 
cheeks  are  almost  the  rule.  Slight  atmospheric  pressure,  bringing  the 
blood  nearer  the  surface,  no  doubt  largely  accounts  for  this,  but  there 
are  many  other  evidences  of  general  good  health.  At  this  altitude 
the  violation  of  most  of  the  rules  of  sanitation  are  lightly  punished. 
The  temperature,  cold  enough  to  be  invigorating  yet  not  so  cold  as  to 
require  our  health-menacing  artificial  heat,  combined  with  its  simple, 
placid  life,  makes  Bogota  a town  of  plump,  robust  figures,  particularly 
among  the  women,  unmarked  by  the  dissipation  common  to  the  males. 
Many  of  the  former  may  frankly  be  termed  beautiful,  in  spite  of  a 
wide-spread  tendency  of  the  sex  to  wear  distinctly  noticeable  black 
mustaches.  Unfortunately  the  men  of  the  well-to-do  class  are  not 
believers  in  exercise,  or  the  systematic  caring  for  the  body.  Scorn- 
ing every  unnecessary  physical  exertion,  letting  themselves  grow  up 
haphazard,  they  are  noticeably  round-shouldered  and  hollow-chested. 
An  American  long  resident  in  the  city  seriously  advised  us  to  “ get  a 
hump  into  your  shoulders  so  you  won’t  attract  so  much  attention.” 

Even  the  descendants  of  the  Chibchas,  that  make  up  much  of  the 
population  of  the  outskirts  and  the  surrounding  country,  have  a tinge 
of  russet  in  their  cheeks,  and  are  by  no  means  so  dark  as  our  copper- 
skinned aborigines.  Daily  they  swarm  into  the  city  that  was  once 
theirs.  Short,  yet  sturdy,  muscular  carriers  and  arrieros,  as  often 

27 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


female  as  male,  pass  noiselessly  through  the  streets  with  the  produce 
of  their  country  patches.  Girls  barely  ten,  to  old  women,  many  of 
comely  features  in  spite  of  the  encrusted  dirt  of  years,  more  often 
so  brutalized  by  toil  as  to  seem  hardly  human,  dressed  in  matted 
rags,  their  feet  and  legs  bare  almost  to  the  knees,  plod  past  under 
burdens  an  American  workman  could  not  carry  a hundred  yards. 
Early  in  the  wintry  plateau  mornings  they  set  out  from  their  chozas, 
cobblestone  or  mud  hovels  thatched  with  the  tough  yellow-brown 
grass  of  the  uplands,  that  are  huddled  in  the  mountain  passes  or 
strewn  out  along  the  windswept  sabana,  driving  a bull  — rarely  a 
steer,  since  the  former  animal  loses  much  of  his  belligerency  at  this 
altitude  — on  its  back  a load  little  larger  than  that  which  the  female 
driver,  with  a strap  about  her  brow,  carries  herself.  They  are  all  but 
indistinguishable  from  the  men  who  tramp  beside  them.  A patch- 
work  skirt  instead  of  tattered  trousers  is  almost  the  only  difference 
in  dress,  and  their  manner  is  utterly  devoid  of  any  feminine  touch. 
Brawny  as  the  men,  they  march  through  all  the  hardships  of  life  as 
sturdily  and  uncomplainingly  as  our  early  pioneers,  asking  sympathy 
neither  by  word  nor  look.  It  is  a commonplace  sight  in  Bogota  to 
see  a mere  girl  in  years  grasp  the  nosering  rope  of  a bull  and  throw 
him  to  his  knees,  or  lay  hold  of  a cinch-strap  in  her  calloused  hands 
and,  with  one  foot  against  the  animal’s  ribs,  tighten  the  girth  with 
the  skill  of  an  experienced  arriero.  Girls  and  boys  alike  are  trained 
from  their  earliest  years  to  this  life  of  bovine  toil,  never  looking 
forward  to  any  other.  Of  the  existence  of  schools  they  have  hardly 
an  inkling.  To  them  life  is  bounded  by  their  cheerless  hovels  and  the 
chicher'ias  of  the  city,  numerous  as  the  pulquerias  of  Mexico.  In 
every  corner  of  the  capital  these  low  drinking  shops  abound,  mas- 
querading under  such  misnomers  as  “ El  Nido  de  Amor  ” — “ The 
Love  Nest,” — and  overrun  by  their  besotted  votaries  of  both  sexes. 
Yet  the  bogotano  Indian  drunk  is  quiet  and  peaceful  compared  with 
the  Mexican,  for  chicha  seems  chiefly  to  bring  drowsiness  and  con- 
tentment with  life  as  it  is. 

Ever  since  our  arrival  Hays  and  I had  been  threatening  to  patronize 
one  of  the  two  public  bath  houses  with  a first-class  bogotano  repu- 
tation rumor  had  it  existed  in  the  capital.  But  in  a land  where  the 
temperature  rarely  reaches  fifty,  and  the  floors  are  tiled,  it  takes 
courage,  and  we  had  been  satisfying  ourselves  and  our  duty  to 
humanity  by  bravely  splashing  a basin  of  icy  water  over  our  manly 
forms  each  morning  on  arising.  By  dint  of  strong  resolutions  often 

28 


Bogota  and  its  sabana  from  the  summit  of  Guadalupe 


room.  In  the  center  is  the  famous  statue  of  Bolivar  by  Tenarani;  on  the  right,  the  new  capilolio;  in  the  middle  foreground  the  Cathedral,  backed  by  the  peaks  of  Guadalupe  and  Monserrate 


The  central  plaza  of  Bogotd  from  the  window  of 


THE  CLOISTERED  CITY 


repeated  to  be  up  at  six  and  visit  one  of  the  casas  de  banos,  we  did 
finally  manage  one  morning  to  find  ourselves  wandering  the  streets 
by  eight,  with  towel  and  soap  under  our  arms,  and  stared  at  by  all 
we  met.  We  discovered  “ La  Violeta  ” at  last,  next  door  to  a black- 
smith shop.  The  keeper  we  woke  up  told  us  we  might  have  a cold 
bath,  but  that  the  sign  on  the  front  wall:  “ Hot  Baths  at  all  Hours,” 
was  to  be  taken  with  a bogotano  meaning. 

A few  mornings  later  we  did  actually  find  the  other  establishment 
open.  We  entered  a large  patio,  the  most  striking  of  several  build- 
ings within  which  was  a round,  or,  more  exactly,  an  eight-sided 
house,  and  in  time  succeeded  in  arousing  the  place  to  the  extent  of 
bringing  down  upon  us  a youth  hugely  excited  at  the  appearance  of 
a crowd  of  two  whole  bathers  all  at  one  time.  It  turned  out  that 
each  of  the  eight  sides  of  the  strange  building  was  — theoretically  — 
a bathroom  of  the  shape  of  a slice  of  cake,  with  a frigid  tile  floor 
and  an  aged  porcelain  tub  in  which  a bath  cost  only  $10.  At  the 
back  was  a larger,  though  none  the  less  dreary,  chamber  with  a 
regadera,  or  showerbath.  The  youth  assured  us  there  was  plenty  of 
hot  water.  I won  the  toss  and  was  soon  stripped.  But  the  shower 
was  colder  than  the  ice-fields  bounding  the  pole.  When  I had  caught 
my  breath  I bawled  my  repertory  of  profane  Spanish  at  the  youth, 
who  could  be  seen  through  a hole  above  pottering  with  some  sort  of 
upright  boiler  and  firebox  and  now  and  then  peering  down  upon  me. 
Suddenly  the  water  grew  warm,  hot,  boiling,  then,  just  when  I had 
soaped  myself  from  crown  to  toe  in  the  steam,  it  turned  as  suddenly 
cold  again,  and  an  instant  later  stopped  entirely.  My  eyes  tight 
closed,  I shouted  at  the  youth  above. 

“ Es  que  el  agua  caliente  se  acabo,”  he  droned.  “ It  is  that  the  hot 
water  has  finished  itself.” 

There  being  no  deadly  weapon  at  hand,  I turned  on  a tap  of  ice- 
cold  water  and  raced  to  the  dressing-room  still  half  soaped.  Hays, 
scantily  clad,  was  gazing  fiercely  at  the  youth  through  a hole  in  the 

door. 

“ Then  there  is  n’t  any  more  hot  water  ? ” he  demanded. 

“ Not  now,  senor,  but  there  will  be  soon.” 

“ Good.  How  soon  ? ” 

“ Early  to-morrow  morning,  senor.” 

“ But  I want  to  bathe  now ! ” 

“Ah,  you  want  to  bathe?”  repeated  the  youth,  with  wide-open 
eyes. 


29 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


“ No,  you  cross-eyed  Son  of  Spigdom,”  exploded  the  ordinarily 
even-tempered  ex-corporal,  “ I came  here  and  stripped  to  an  under- 
shirt that  I might  dance  in  my  bare  feet  on  this  tile  door  in  honor  of 
Jose  Maria  de  la  Santa  Trindidad  Simon  Bolivar!  Get  up  on  that 
roof  and  fire  up  or  . . 

The  youth  was  already  feverishly  stoking  armsful  of  wood  under 
the  upright  boiler,  and  by  the  time  I left  for  home  Hays  was  shadow 
boxing  to  keep  warm,  with  a fair  chance  of  getting  a bath  before  the 
day  was  done. 

As  is  to  be  expected  from  its  isolation,  the  Colombian  capital  is  a 
deeply  religious,  not  to  say  a fanatical,  city.  An  infernal  din  of 
church  bells  of  the  tone  of  suspended  pans  or  broken  boilers  makes 
the  early  morning  hours  hideous  and  continues  at  frequent  intervals 
throughout  the  day.  Here,  contrary  to  the  custom  in  most  centers  of 
the  Latin  race,  the  men  as  well  as  the  women  go  to  church.  College 
professors  and  literary  lights  of  no  mean  ability  seriously  contend 
that  the  shinbone  of  some  saint  in  this  shrine  or  that  “ temple  ” has 
miraculous  power;  but  the  superstition  of  isolation  hangs  particularly 
heavy  over  the  uneducated  masses.  Of  late  years  the  Liberals  and 
the  Masons  have  grown  nearly  as  powerful  as  the  Conservatives,  and 
do  not  hesitate  to  express  themselves  freely  in  public,  knowing  that 
in  case  of  attack  any  representative  body  of  the  population  includes 
fellow-Liberals  who  will  come  to  their  rescue.  Every  public  gather- 
ing is  pregnant  with  possibilities  of  an  outburst  between  the  two 
divisions  of  society.  The  very  schoolboys  talk  politics  — here  in- 
extricably entangled  with  religion  — and  the  foreigner  who  wishes 
to  hold  the  attention  of  a Colombian  for  a conversation  of  any  length 
must  have  some  knowledge,  or  at  least  a plausible  pretense  of  knowl- 
edge, of  interior  political  questions.  It  was  a bare  three  years  since 
a Protestant  missionary  had  been  stoned  by  the  populace  of  Bogota, 
though  he  now  held  his  services  in  peace  in  what,  despite  the  lack  of 
outward  signs,  was  really  a church.  Policemen  armed  with  rifles 
liberally  besprinkle  every  meeting  in  theater,  cathedral,  or  public 
square.  Shortly  before  our  arrival  a dozen  officers  and  citizens  had 
been  killed  in  a religious  riot  in  the  bullring. 

Were  they  less  hump-shouldered,  these  policemen  of  Bogota  might 
easily  be  taken  for  Irishmen,  and  an  absent-minded  American  fancy 
bimself  back  in  the  New  York  of  a decade  ago.  The  uniform  of  the 
day  force  is  a copy  of  that  of  our  own  metropolis  before  the  helmets 
were  abolished.  At  night  the  scene  changes.  In  every  street  spring 

30 


THE  CLOISTERED  CITY 


up  officers  in  high  caps  and  long  capes  who  might  have  stepped  directly 
from  the  arrondissements  of  Paris,  with  even  the  short  sword  in 
place  of  the  daytime  “ night-stick.”  They  are  a well  disciplined  body 
of  men,  quite  unlike  the  childish,  inefficient  guardians  of  law  and  dis- 
order so  familiar  from  the  Rio  Grande  southward.  The  bogotano 
officer  would  no  sooner  be  seen  sitting,  lounging,  or  smoking  on  duty 
than  would  one  in  our  own  large  cities.  As  in  all  Latin-American 
countries,  however,  the  chief  drawback  to  a really  efficient  service  is 
the  caste  system.  The  policemen  are  of  necessity  recruited  from  the 
gente  del  pueblo,  and  though  they  have  no  hesitancy  in  arresting  one 
of  their  own  class,  the  sight  of  a white  collar  paralyzes  them  with 
their  ingrown  deference  to  the  more  powerful  rank  of  society.  The 
result  is  that  a well-dressed  person  can  commit  anything  short  of 
serious  crime  under  the  very  eyes  of  the  police.  The  officer  may 
keep  the  culprit  under  surveillance,  but  rarely  summons  up  courage 
actually  to  arrest  him  until  he  has  definite  orders  from  a white-collared 
superior. 

There  are  curious  local  customs  in  Bogota.  Her  small  shops,  for 
example,  have  a system  of  signs  intelligible  only  to  the  initiated.  A 
red  flag  announces  meat  for  sale ; a red  flag  with  a yellow  star,  meat 
and  bones ; a white  flag,  milk ; a green  one,  vegetables  and  grains. 
A cabbage  or  a lettuce-head  thrust  forth  on  the  end  of  a stick  marks 
the  entrance  to  a cheap  restaurant ; a tuft  of  faded  flowers,  a chicheria. 
The  bogotano  sees  nothing  incongruous  in  a building  that  announces 
itself  a “ Primary  School  ” above  and  an  “ American  Bar  ” below. 
On  week  days  the  pedestrian  slinks  through  many  of  the  chief  resi- 
dential streets  apparently  unseen ; on  a gala  Sunday  afternoon  the 
same  stroll  is  to  run  an  unbroken  gauntlet  of  feminine  eyes.  For  then 
the  senoritas  who  are  seen,  if  at  all,  during  the  week,  hurrying  to 
mass  all  but  concealed  in  their  mantos,  don  their  most  resplendent 
garb  and,  with  cushions  under  their  plump  elbows,  lean  in  their 
window  embrazures  oggling  and  being  oggled  through  the  iron  rejas. 

A native  of  Medellin,  where  envy  of  the  capital  and  her  self-seeking 
politicians  is  rife,  had  assured  us  as  far  away  as  Panama: 

“ All  they  do  in  Bogota  is  study  and  steal.” 

We  had  only  to  glance  out  our  windows  to  find  basis  for  the  first 
part  of  the  assertion.  The  plaza  below  was  always  alive  with  students 
from  the  local  institutions  of  higher  learning  for  males  marching 
slowly  back  and  forth  conning  the  day’s  lessons.  The  fireless  houses 
are  cold  and  dungeon-like,  particularly  in  the  morning,  and  the  city 

3i 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


long  ago  formed  the  habit  of  studying  afoot.  The  racial  dislike  of 
solitude  and  the  eagerness  to  be  seen  and  recognized  by  their  fellows 
as  devotees  of  learning  may  also  have  some  part  in  a practice  that 
many  a bogotano  continues  through  life.  It  is  commonplace  to  pass 
in  almost  any  street  men  even  past  middle  age  strolling  along  with 
an  open  book  in  one  hand  and  the  inevitable  silver-headed  cane  in  the 
other. 

In  colonial  times  Bogota  won  the  reputation,  if  not  the  actual  posi- 
tion, of  “ literary  capital  of  South  America.”  Her  speech  is  still 
the  best  Castilian  of  America,  with  little  of  that  slovenliness  of  pro- 
nunciation so  general  from  the  Rio  Grande  southward.  To  this  day 
the  city  has  a considerable  intellectual  life,  wider  perhaps  than  it  is 
deep.  “ Everyone  ” writes.  He  is  a rare  public  man  who  has  not 
published  at  least  a handful  of  “ versos  ” in  his  youth.  Poets,  writers, 
painters,  and  musical  composers  are  more  numerous  than  in  many  a 
far  larger  center  of  civilization.  The  placid  isolation  of  life  in 
Bogota,  almost  completely  severed  from  the  feverish  distractions  of 
the  modern  world,  makes  this  natural.  There  is  nothing  else  to  do. 
Then,  too,  lack  of  opportunity  to  compare  their  work  with  that  of  a 
wider  world  no  doubt  gives  the  “ literatos  ” of  Bogota  a self-com- 
placency that  might  otherwise  be  slighter.  The  cheap  local  printing- 
presses  pour  out  a constant  flood  of  five-cent  volumes  of  the  local 
“ poets,”  those  same  “ cachacos  ” and  “ filipichines  ” in  frock-tailed 
coats  who  lean  with  such  Parisian  grace  on  their  canes  at  the  prin- 
cipal street  corners.  The  youth  who  sees  his  smudged  likeness  appear 
on  the  tissue-paper  cover  of  the  weekly  pamphlet  seethes  with  ill- 
suppressed  joy  at  his  entrance  into  the  glorious,  if  crowded,  ranks 
of  the  “ intelectuales.”  It  is  chiefly  a dilettante  literature,  rarely  of 
material  reward  and  of  no  visible  connection  with  life.  But  a con- 
siderable stream  of  flowery  verse,  languidly  melancholy  in  its  tem- 
perament and  not  overburdened  with  deep  thought,  flows  constantly, 
and  the  boiling  down  by  time  has  left  Bogota  credited  with  a few 
works  of  genuine  worth. 

A lecture  was  given  one  evening  at  the  Jurisprudence  Club  on  the 
momentuous  subject  of  “ The  Necessity  of  a Legal  Revolution  in 
Colombia.”  Hays  renigged  at  the  last  moment,  but  I accepted  the 
invitation  issued  to  the  “ general  public.”  I was  the  only  foreigner 
among  the  hundred  present,  yet  no  American  audience  could  have 
been  more  universally  white  of  complexion.  Indeed,  the  gathering 
was  strikingly  like  a similar  one  in  our  own  country  — on  a March 

32 


THE  CLOISTERED  CITY 


evening  when  the  furnace  had  broken  down  or  the  janitor  gone  on 
strike.  All  wore  overcoats  and  kept  constantly  bundled  up.  The 
solemn  whispering  of  the  audience  as  it  gathered,  the  unattractiveness 
of  the  women,  all  of  whom  had  long  since  left  youth  behind,  the  staid 
mien  of  the  men  in  their  frock  coats,  gave  the  scene  the  atmosphere 
of  a meeting  of  “ highbrows  ” in  a corner  of  far-away  New  England. 
But  there  was  superimposed  a pompous  solemnity  and  a funereal  tone 
peculiar  to  the  Latin-American,  to  a race  that  lays  more  stress  on 
the  correctness  of  its  manner  than  the  weight  of  its  matter.  A mis- 
statement or  a palpably  erroneous  fact  or  conclusion,  one  felt,  might 
pass  muster,  but  not  a slip  in  the  “ urbanities  ” of  society  or  the  in- 
correct knotting  of  a cravat. 

It  was  a “lecture”  in  the  French  sense.  When  the  president  had 
taken  his  place  and  all  was  arranged  in  faultless  Parisian  order,  the 
speaker  removed  his  neck-scarf  and  began  solemnly  to  read  from  type- 
written manuscript.  He  was  a man  of  forty,  wearing  glasses,  with 
the  perpendicular  wrinkles  of  close  study  on  his  brow.  A score  of 
countries  could  have  reproduced  him  ad  libitum.  He  read  drearily, 
monotonously,  with  constant  care  never  to  spill  over  into  the  merely 
human.  The  discourse  based  itself  on  the  narrow  national  patriotism 
common  to  Latin-America.  Yet  at  times  the  speaker  talked  plainly, 
admitting  that  Colombia  is  88%  illiterate  and  that  half  the  remainder 
can  barely  read  and  write.  The  Church  he  assailed  bitterly  for  its 
shortcomings,  yet  never  mentioned  it  directly.  In  time,  as  is  bound 
to  happen  sooner  or  later  in  any  public  meeting  in  Colombia,  he 
drifted  into  the  great  national  grievance  and  whined  through  several 
pages  on  “ the  wickedness  of  taking  the  rebel  province  of  Panama 
away  from  us,  a weak  and  helpless  people  ” — here  I caught  several 
of  the  audience  gazing  fixedly  at  me,  as  if  they  fancied  I had  taken 
some  active  part  in  that  debateable  action.  Through  all  the  latter 
part  of  the  lecture  the  church  bells  across  the  way  kept  up  a constant 
jangling  that  completely  swallowed  up  whatever  conclusions  he  had 
gained  from  his  laborious  dissertation.  It  was  strangely  as  if  the  voice 
of  religion  and  superstition  were  trying  by  din  and  hubbub  to  drown 
out  that  of  reason  and  reflection,  as  it  has  since  the  first  medicine-man 
danced  howling  into  the  circle  of  elders  in  conference  in  the  Stone 
Age. 

On  the  “ Panama  question  ” the  attitude  of  the  Colombian  man  in 
the  street  is  not  exactly  that  of  the  Government.  A well-educated 
native  holding  a small  post,  though  clinging  to  the  same  convictions 

33 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


on  the  “ taking  ” of  the  “ rebel  province  ” as  the  bulk  of  his  country- 
men, expressed  himself  to  me  as  follows : 

“ We  ordinary  citizens  feel  that  our  country  should  be  paid  for  the 
loss  of  Panama,  and  the  slight  to  our  national  hofior.  But  we  hope 
very  much  that  your  United  States  will  not  pay  our  government  a 
large  sum  of  money  in  cash,  as  contemplated  by  the  proposed  treaty. 
For  almost  all  of  it  would  go  into  the  pockets  of  the  dozen  poli- 
ticians who  hold  the  reins  of  government.  Give  us  obras  hechas, — 
finished  works, — a railway  from  the  coast  to  Bogota,  or  a perfected 
harbor  with  docks  and  modern  facilities.” 

One  day  soon  after  our  arrival  we  strolled  over  to  the  Biblioteca 
National  to  begin  the  Colombian  reading  we  had  planned.  It  was 
wasted  effort.  We  brought  up  against  a heavy  colonial  door  bearing 
the  announcement:  “Suspended  until  further  notice,  by  order  of  the 
Ministry  of  Public  Instruction.” 

An  American  resident  interpreted  it  to  mean,  “ Oh,  some  of  the 
readers  have  been  stealing  books  again  ” — and  we  recalled  the  cynical 
native  of  Medellin.  Days  later,  however,  when  we  gained  unofficial 
admission  for  a few  moments,  we  found  that  the  5000  volumes  be- 
queathed by  a Colombian  “ literato  ” not  unknown  to  a wider  world 
— Rafael  Pombo,  who  had  recently  died  in  Paris  — were  being 
catalogued.  Several  frock-coated  pedants  were  smoking  innumerable 
cigarettes  and  deceiving  themselves  into  the  notion  that  they  were  at 
work  arranging  the  books.  But  the  National  Library  remained  her- 
metically sealed  to  the  public  as  long  as  we  remained  in  the  capital. 
It  was  by  no  means  the  first  nor  the  last  time  we  met  a similar  disap- 
pointment in  South  America. 

We  had  put  it  off  a long  while  before  we  gathered  courage  and  all 
our  woolen  garments  and  hurried  through  the  wintry  night  to  Bogota’s 
main  theater.  As  in  other  restricted  societies,  entertainments  are 
frequently  “got  up”  here,  chiefly  with  local  talent.  It  is  a long  way 
to  any  other  talent  in  Bogota.  This  one  was  a velada  in  honor  of 
that  same  Rafael  Pombo.  Fortunately  the  audience  was  large 
enough  to  keep  the  place  moderately  warm.  Every  detail,  every 
movement,  the  very  toilettes  of  the  distinctly  good  looking,  if  mus- 
tached,  ladies  in  boxes  and  stalls  were  as  exact  a copy  as  was  humanly 
possible  of  similar  scenes  at  the  opera  in  Paris,  a copy  in  miniature 
bearing  the  earmarks  of  having  been  taken  from  some  novel  of  the 
boulevards.  Senora  la  bogotana  used  her  lorgnette  exactly  as  she 
had  read  of  her  Parisian  counterpart  doing;  the  men,  in  faultless 

34 


THE  CLOISTERED  CITY 


evening  dress  down  to  the  last  white  eyeglass  ribbon  about  the  neck, 
strove  to  act  precisely  as  they  conceived  men  did  on  like  occasions 
in  the  wider  world.  Again  all  was  burdened  by  the  solemn  artifici- 
ality of  the  race.  One  after  another  six  men  burst  genteelly  upon 
the  stage  and  declaimed  something  or  other  in  that  painful,  flamboyant 
ranting  so  beloved  of  the  Latin.  All  the  cut  and  dried  forms  of 
“ cultured  ” society  were  solemnly  carried  out.  Flowers,  some  one 
had  read,  were  always  presented  to  the  performers,  and  even  the 
podgy,  pompous  old  fellow  who  forgot  his  “ piece  ’’  several  times  had 
solemnly  thrust  upon  him  by  a stage  lackey  in  gorgeous  livery  two 
immense  wreaths  of  blossoms. 

In  one  matter  at  least  these  bogotanos  were  at  an  advantage  over 
amateurs  of  other  lands.  Natural  declaimers  and  reciters  from  baby- 
hood, their  tongues  always  eager  for  utterance,  almost  devoid  of  that 
bashfulness  that  works  the  undoing  of  the  less  fluent  but  perhaps 
deeper  thinking  races,  they  seemed  seasoned  actors  in  those  points 
which  called  for  strictly  histrionic  ability.  In  another  theater  a few 
nights  later  we  saw  several  Spanish  comedies  presented  by  a company 
of  local  amateurs,  and  were  astonished  at  the  excellence  of  the  work. 
That  of  a few  of  the  principals  would  have  won  praise  on  any  stage. 

Three  railways  leave  Bogota,  though  none  of  them  gets  very  far 
away.  First  in  importance,  of  course,  is  that  to  Facatativa,  connect- 
ing with  Jirardot.  Another  runs  through  the  flower-decked  suburb 
of  Chapinero,  past  Caro,  with  its  cream-colored  castle  on  a hill  above 
a cluster  of  thatched  mud  huts,  to  Nemecon,  a sooty  adobe  town  of 
surface  coal  mines  where  the  sabana  is  cut  off  on  the  north.  Back 
along  it  to  Zapiquira  the  excursionist  tramps  ten  miles  in  autumn 
coolness,  hardly  realizing  he  is  near  the  equator,  between  fields  of  half- 
grown  maize,  broad  grassy  pastures  dotted  with  white  clover,  with 
dandelions,  daisies,  cowslips,  and  brilliant  yellow  “ smart-weed.’’ 
Blackberry  bushes  here  and  there  edge  a field  in  which  scamper  plump 
cattle  and  horses ; others  are  confined  by  fence  posts  of  stone  with 
four  holes  carefully  drilled  in  each  through  which  to  pass  the  alambrc. 
dc  piias, — barbed  wire  from  our  own  land.  Zapiquira  is  remarkable 
only  for  the  bulking  hill  beside  it,  almost  solid  rock  salt.  The  mouths 
of  a score  of  small  tunnels  lie  in  plain  sight  somewhat  up  the  slope. 
The  salt  rocks  are  beaten  fine,  dissolved  in  water,  evaporated,  pressed, 
and  packed  into  two-bushel  bags  that  are  carried  away  by  toil-stupefied 
women  and  girls  with  a band  across  their  foreheads. 

But  the  excursion  par  excellence  is  that  to  the  falls  of  Tequendama, 

35 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


the  theme  of  at  least  one  poem  by  every  bogotano  writer.  The  unholy 
clatter  of  church-bells  helped  me  arouse  Hays  one  morning  in  time 
to  catch  the  early  train  on  the  “ Ferrocarril  del  Sur.”  Some  twenty 
miles  out  we  descended  at  the  isolated  little  station  of  Tequendama 
and  struck  off  through  a region  wholly  unwooded  and  almost  desert 
dry.  As  the  road  mounted  a bit  from  the  bare  sabana  a hardy  vege- 
tation appeared,  here  and  there  a small  grove  of  eucalypti,  and  a 
bushy  natural  growth  thinly  covering  the  sides  of  the  low  mountains 
among  which  we  were  soon  winding.  Before  long  we  fell  in  with 
the  narrow  Bogota  river,  idling  placidly  along,  little  guessing  what  a 
tremendous  tumble  it  was  due  to  get  a bit  later.  Tradition  has  it 
that  a god  or  an  Inca,  desiring  to  drain  the  lake  that  once  covered 
the  sabana,  opened  the  gap  through  which  the  stream  drops.  By  and 
by  there  appeared  ahead  a whirling  mist  cloud  which  grew  until  we 
found  ourselves  completely  enveloped  in  a great  fog  out  of  which 
rose  a dull,  never-ending  roar  of  indistinct  location.  Directed  by  a 
peasant,  we  descended  through  a rustic  gate  and  for  some  yards  down 
a field  of  heather  and  deep-green  grass  speckled  with  white  clover 
blossoms  and  scattered  with  massive  protruding  rocks.  The  face  of 
the  one  of  these  a Bogota  merchant  had  disfigured  in  impertinent 
American  fashion  with  an  advertisement  of  his  “ superior  coffee.” 
We  had  reached  the  “ Niagara  of  Colombia.” 

Yet  so  far  as  seeing  went  we  might  as  well  have  been  in  our  cozy 
beds  back  in  the  capital.  An  ordinary  brown  stream  some  forty  feet 
wide  flowed  down  through  bulging  rocks,  pitched  over  in  a short  fall 
on  to  a stony  ledge  at  our  feet,  then  off  into  the  mist-blinded  unknown. 
A mere  country  brook  in  which  we  could  dip  our  fingers  here,  a foot 
beyond  it  was  forever  gone.  It  was  as  if  a whole  world  of  mystery 
lay  below  and  about  us,  yet  the  curtain  of  swirling  gray  mist  into 
which  the  river  plunged  to  be  seen  no  more  hid  all  from  view. 

We  had  shivered  through  our  lunch,  finding  it  difficult  to  believe 
that  we  were  five  degrees  from  the  equator  in  the  month  of  July, 
.when  suddenly  the  wind  rose,  and  for  a moment  the  mist  thinned 
until  we  caught  a hint  of  an  immense  chasm  untold  depths  below ; 
then  closed  in  again.  The  excursion  seemed  to  have  been  a failure. 
We  strolled  on  down  the  highway  in  the  fog  and  loafed  awhile  on  a 
bushy  hillside.  But  as  we  turned  homeward,  the  mist  was  vviped  away 
as  suddenly  as  a curtain  drawn  aside  and  all  Tequendama  lay  before 
us.  I slid  down  a steep  bank  to  the  edge  of  the  bottomless  chasm 
and  sat  down  where  I could  remain,  as  long  as  I kept  my  feet  braced 

36 


Celebrating  Colombia’s  Independence  Day  (July  20th)  by  unveiling  a new  statue  of  Sucre 
and  renaming  a plaza  in  his  honor 


Meanwhile  in  another  square  the  populace  marvels  at  the  feats  of  “maroma  nacional”  of 
an  amateur  circus.  Note  the  line  of  policemen  in  holiday  attire 


THE  CLOISTERED  CITY 


in  the  sod,  before  one  of  the  finest  sights  in  the  world  — or  let  them 
slip  and  drop  to  sudden  death.  From  the  upper  ledge  the  stream  fell 
a sheer  unbroken  thousand  feet  in  which  the  entire  river  seemed  to 
turn  to  spray  and  whatever  was  left  when  it  struck  was  beaten  into 
mist  which,  rising  like  steam  from  the  yawning  gorge  as  from  some 
immense  caldron,  hid  all  the  face  of  the  adjacent  country.  Im- 
measurely  below,  a much  smaller  stream  could  be  seen  picking  itself 
together  again  and  winding  its  way  dizzily  off  through  a vast  rock- 
faced canon  on  the  perpendicular  walls  of  which  clung  a few  hardy 
plants ; and  while  we  remained  in  the  cold  autumn  world  above,  the 
river  flowed  away  into  the  tropics,  into  the  coffee  country,  the  land 
of  bananas,  and  the  perpetual  summer  of  the  Magdalena,  to  help 
float  Colombia  down  to  the  outer  world. 

Of  the  many  views  of  Bogota  the  best  is  that  we  had  at  the  end  of 
our  stay,  from  the  summit  of  Guadalupe.  A bit  of  the  backing  range 
juts  forth  in  two  peaks,  each  with  a little  white  church  on  its  top, 
that  seem  almost  sheer  above  the  city.  We  climbed  to  the  higher  in 
something  more  than  an  hour,  massed  clouds  breaking  away  now  and 
then  to  flood  with  sunshine  the  ever  widening  sabana  and  the  hazy, 
far-away  mountains  that  seemed  to  cut  off  the  world  completely,  and 
came  out  at  last  on  a grassy  platform  where  we 'could  look  down, 
like  the  astonished  Conquistadores,  on  all  the  vast  plain,  and,  unlike 
them,  on  the  city  they  founded.  North  and  south,  as  far  as  we  could 
see,  stretched  the  bleak,  treeless  range  on  which  we  stood.  At  our 
feet  this  fell  abruptly  away  to  the  suburban  huts  of  the  city  and  her 
encircling  Paseo  de  Bolivar.  Every  plaza  and  patio,  many  green  with 
a clump  of  eucalypti,  every  window  and  rooftile,  was  plainly  visible. 
The  people  were  so  tiny  we  had  to  look  for  them  carefully,  as  for 
insects  on  a carpet,  before  we  could  make  them  out  by  hundreds 
crawling  along  the  light-brown  streets  and  specking  the  squares.  Near 
the  brick-walled  cemetery  the  disk  of  the  bullring,  filled  now  with  the 
tents  of  the  “ Circo  Keller,”  seemed  a canvas  cover  on  a small  squat 
pail.  Factories,  as  we  understand  the  word,  being  unknown,  not  a 
fleck  of  smoke  smudged  the  dull-red  expanse  of  the  stoveless  city.  Its 
noises  came  up  to  us  very  faintly,  at  times  borne  wholly  away  on 
the  wind,  and  from  this  height  even  the  diabolic  din  of  church-bells 
sounded  soft  and  almost  musical. 

A recent  census  sets  the  population  at  122,000.  Looking  down 
upon  the  fcity  from  Guadalupe,  this  seems  at  first  an  underestimation. 
But  gradually  one  realizes  that  not  only  are  its  houses  low,  often  of 

37 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


a single  story,  but  largely  taken  up  by  interior  patios.  Then  there 
are  more  than  a score  of  churches,  innumerable  chapels,  eight  large 
monasteries,  several  seminaries,  and  many  residences  of  the  Church 
authorities.  Add  to  this  the  many  government  buildings,  and  bit  by 
bit  the  traveler  grown  skeptical  from  experience  with  Latin-American 
figures,  begins  to  wonder  if  these  are  not  inflated.  There  is  not  a 
wooden  building  in  town.  Treelessness  governs  the  architecture,  for 
the  surrounding  country  is  above  the  timber  line,  though  the  imported 
eucalyptus  rises  in  groves  here  and  there  and  flanks  roads  and  rail- 
ways. 

A distinct  line  divides  the  city  from  the  sabana,  spread  out  like 
a rich  brown  carpet,  cut  up  into  irregular  fields  by  adobe  wall-fences 
often  roofed,  like  the  houses,  with  aged  red  tiles.  In  many  places 
the  sheen  of-  shallow  lakes  recalled  that  the  Zipa  of  the  Chibchas 
built  his  Teusacjuilla  here  on  the  lower  skirts  of  the  range  to  escape 
the  winter  floods  of  the  plain.  Off  across  it  were  dimly  seen  several 
flat  towns,  and  here  and  there  a farm-house  or  a cluster  of  them  in 
a grove  of  the  slender  Australian  gum-trees  which  merely  accen- 
tuated the  treelessness  of  the  vast  expanse  of  w'orld.  Six  highways 
sally  forth  from  the  city,  to  march  waveringly  across  the  plain,  mere 
threads  lost  at  las't  in  the  enclosing  range,  broken,  gnarled,  pitched 
and  tumbled  into  every  manner  of  shape,  bright  peaks  and  valleys 
standing  sharply  forth  where  the  sun  strikes,  great  purple-black 
patches  marking  the  shadows  of  the  clouds.  Beyond  all  else,  at  times 
lost  in  clouds,  at  others  plainly  visible,  lay  the  central  range  of  the 
Cordillera  over  which  we  must  pass  on  our  journey  southward. 
Though  more  than  a hundred  miles  away,  it  bulked  into  the  sky  like 
some  vast  supernatural  wall,  the  broad  snow-capped  cone  of  Tolima 
piercing  the  heavens  in  the  center  of  the  picture. 


38 


CHAPTER  III 


FROM  BOGOTA  OVER  THE  QUINDIO  ~ 

THE  people  of  Bogota  refused  to  take  seriously  our  plan  of 
walking  to  Quito.  It  was  not  merely  that  the  Ecuadorian 
capital  was  far  away;  to  the  inhabitants  of  this  isolated 
little  world  it  was  only  a name,  like  Moscow  or  Lhassa.  Those  who 
had  gone  to  school  as  far  as  the  geography  lessons  had  a nebulous 
notion  that  it  lay  somewhere  to  the  south,  and  that  no  sea  intervened ; 
but  their  imaginations  could  not  picture  two  lone  gringos  arriving  by 
land.  To  seek  information  was  simply  to  waste  time.  The  non- 
existent cannot  be  described.  The  best  we  could  do  was  to  pore  over 
a page  map  in  a foreign  atlas,  whereon  a match,  according  to  scale, 
was  300  miles  long.  Quito  lay  nearly  three  match-lengths  distant 
“ as  the  crow  flies,”  without  considering  the  very  mountainous  nature 
of  the  country  between.  Yet  the  hardy  Conquistadores  had  somehow 
journeyed  thither,  and  in  other  parts  of  the  world  we  had  both 
traveled  routes  that  the  natives  considered  “ impossible.” 

As  far  away  as  Panama  the  horrors  of  this  proposed  tramp  had 
been  impressed  upon  me.  At  dinner  one  evening  a typical,  stage 
Englishman,  accent  and  all,  and  an  incurable  monopolist  of  the  con- 
versation, proved  to  be  the  owner  of  mines  in  Colombia,  and  I man- 
aged once  to  cut  in  with  a query  about  travel  in  that  country. 

“ When  the  steamer  lands  you  in  ,”  he  began,  “ you  buy  your 

mules,  ten  or  twelve,  hire  your  mozos  and  carriers  and  . . .” 

“ But  I plan  to  walk.” 

“Walk!”  exploded  my  fellow-guest,  “Why  on  earth  should  a man 
wish  to  walk?” 

“ It  keeps  the  girth  reduced,”  I might  have  replied. 

“ It  cahn’t  be  done,”  dogmatized  the  monopolist.  “ Absurd ! Why 
— • why  — a man  cahn’t  travel  on  foot  in  Colombia.  His  social  stand- 
ing depends  on  how  fine  a mule  he  rides.  If  he  walked,  he ’d  be  taken 
for  a bally  peon,  lose  his  caste  entirely,  y’  know,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing.” 

“ Horrible  ! ” I gasped. 


39 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


“ Besides,  you ’ve  got  to  have  a mule-train  to  carry  your  tent  and 
bed  and  supplies  and  . . . Why,  what  on  earth  would  you  eat  ? ” 

“ Huts  ...”  I began. 

“Eh?  Of  the  natives?  Of  course,  but  they  haven’t  a blessed 
thing  to  eat,  y’  know.  They  live  on  corn  cakes  and  beans,  and 
bananas  and  bread,  and  that  sort  of  thing.  Now  and  then  a chicken 
perhaps,  but  you ’d  starve  to  death.  And  if  they  saw  a white  man 
coming,  they ’d  know  he  had  a lot  of  money  and  rob  him.  Bandits 
and  that  sort  of  thing,  y’  know.  And  how  are  you  going  to  cross 
the  rivers — ? ” 

“ Swim  — ” I tried  to  say,  but  the  sentence  was  drowned  in  his 
cataract  of  words. 

“ And  the  mud ! Why,  bless  me,  one  time  a party  was  going  along 
the  road  in  Colombia  and  they  saw  a hat,  an  English  hat,  lying  in  a 
mudhole.  One  of  them  started  to  kick  it,  when  a man’s  voice  shouted : 

“ * ’Ere,  stop  it ! That ’s  my  bally  ’ead  ! ’ 

“‘What  on  earth  are  you  doing  down  there?’  said  the  party. 

“ ‘ Sitting  on  my  mule,  to  be  sure,’  said  the  voice. 

“ Why,  bless  me,  I would  n’t  go  on  foot  in  Colombia  for  all  the  gold 
in  the  bank  of  England  ! ” 

It  was  the  end  of  July  when  I tiptoed  out  of  the  American  Legation 
of  Bogota,  bearing  at  last  a letter  from  our  magnificent  charge 
d’affaires  — a splendid  representative  of  Harvard,  but  not,  thank  God, 
of  the  United  States  — and  carried  it  over  to  the  government  build- 
ing opposite.  The  Minister  of  Foreign  Affairs  to  whom  I made  my 
way  through  a line  of  typewriters  on  which  cigarette-clouded  officials 
were  pounding  out  great  international  matters  with  two  fingers,  was 
one  of  those  rare  persons  who  know  why  a man  should  wish  to  walk, 
though,  being  a Colombian,  he  had  never  dared  do  so  himself,  and 
was,  moreover,  certain  that  Quito  could  not  be  reached  by  land.  I 
was  soon  armed  with  a gorgeous,  if  misspelled,  document  in  which 
the  Government  of  Colombia  permitted  itself  to  recommend  los 
senores  americanos  therein  named  to  the  authorities  along  the  way  — 
should  any  such  turn  up. 

The  genuine  traveler  sets  out  on  a journey  by  tossing  a toothbrush 
into  a pocket  and  strolling  out  of  town.  But  even  Hays  had  suffered 
somewhat  from  that  softening  of  the  vagabond’s  moral  fiber  that  is  the 
penalty  for  dallying  with  the  bourgeois  comforts  of  civilization.  We 
both  had  the  American  hobo’s  disgust  for  the  “ blanket  stiff  ” who 
“ packs  ” his  own  bed ; yet  the  Andes  offer  no  proper  field  for  ortho- 

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\ C.S.Ilammood  k Co,,  New  York. 


^NAVARIN  l 
^WOLLASTON 

; Cape  Horn 


FROM  BOGOTA  OVER  THE  QUINDIO 


dox  hoboing.  The  journey  of  unknown  duration  and  possibilities 
before  us  was  sure  to  have  variations  in  climate  making  extra  clothing 
indispensable ; moreover,  we  could  not  take  the  photographs  along 
the  way  unless  we  carried  with  us  means  for  developing  the  nega- 
tives. Our  first  plan  was  to  buy  a donkey  and  drive  him  between 
us  down  the  crest  of  the  Andes.  Among  the  many  reasons  why  this 
fond  dream  could  not  be  realized  was  the  certainty  that  we  should 
have  chased  the  animal  off  his  feet  within  a week.  Observation  and 
reflection  suggested  that  we  should  do  better  to  follow  the  ways  of 
the  country  and  hire  a human  beast  of  burden.  For  one  thing,  if 
the  latter  ran  away  or  dropped  dead  we  lost  nothing,  except  perhaps 
our  tempers ; if  the  donkey  came  to  a like  end,  we  would  be  out  ten 
or  twelve  dollars.  Hays  abandoned  the  plan  with  double  regret,  for 
with  it  went  the  hope  of  some  day  reporting  the  journey  under  the 
arresting  title,  “ Three  Uncurried  Asses  in  the  Andes.” 

With  hundreds  of  animated  bundles  of  rags  trotting  about  the  city 
ready  to  lug  anything  from  a load  of  hay  to  a chest  of  drawers  for  a 
mere  five-cent  piece,  we  were  certain  there  would  be  scores  of  native 
carriers  eager  to  see  the  world  and  to  substitute  a dismal  and  inter- 
mittent hand-to-mouth  existence  for  a steady  job.  We  quickly  dis- 
covered, however,  that  we  were  wrong  in  ascribing  our  own  tem- 
peraments to  the  Chibcha  Indian.  There  was  not  a youth  among  the 
swarming  cargadorcs  of  Bogota  who  had  the  faintest  desire  to  see 
the  world ; the  bare  thought  of  getting  out  of  sound  of  the  clanging 
cathedral  bells  filled  them  one  and  all  with  terror.  For  the  first  time 
we  had  struck  the  basic  economic  fact  that  the  South  American 
aboriginal  prefers  to  starve  at  home  rather  than  to  live  in  comparative 
opulence  elsewhere.  In  prehistoric  times  the  Indians  worshipped  the 
natural  phenomena  about  their  place  of  birth ; each  village  had  its  cave 
or  tree,  its  stone  or  hill,  on  which  it  depended  for  protection ; and  the 
dread  of  getting  out  of  reach  of  these  still  courses  through  their  primi- 
tive minds. 

By  dint  of  repeated  packing  and  throwing  away,  we  reduced  our 
fundamental  necessities  to  little  more  than  the  contents  of  two  swollen 
suitcases.  Word  of  our  nefarious  project  to  contract  a carrier  to 
bear  these  to  some  far-off,  unknown  world  reached  the  last  hovels 
of  the  suburbs.  But  the  cargadores  we  approached  quickly  named 
an  exorbitant  wage  and  fled  at  the  first  opportunity.  It  was  not  a 
question  of  load,  but  of  road.  Hays  inticed  a sturdy  fellow  upstairs 
one  day  and  pointed  out  our  baggage  on  top  of  an  enormous  chest. 

4i 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


The  Indian  calmly  picked  up  chest  and  all,  murmuring  cheerfully : 

“ A little  heavy,  senores,  but  I can  do  it.  Where  to  ? ” 

When  we  suggested  a long  trip,  however,  horror  crept  into  his 
eyes,  though  his  unemotional  Indian  face  showed  none  of  it,  and 
naming  an  impossible  fee,  he  slowly  and  silently  slid  backward  through 
the  door. 

To  our  surprise,  a man  captured  late  on  the  day  before  we  planned 
to  start  did  not  show  this  customary  fear.  He  proved  to  be  a native 
of  the  tier r a c alien te,  eager  to  get  back  to  his  tropical  home,  and 
asserted  his  ability  to  carry  four  arrobas  (ioo  pounds)  day  after  day. 
Our  baggage  weighed  far  less  than  that. 

“Why  not  take  a contract  to  go  with  us  by  the  month?”  I sug- 
gested. 

“ Como  que  pagaran  los  senores  ? ” he  queried  reflectively. 

“ We  ’ll  pay  you,”  I answered,  setting  the  sum  high  so  that  Hays, 
to  whom  money  was  always  a minor  detail,  could  not  charge  me 
with  losing  this  eleventh-hour  opportunity,  $1200  a month,  and 
food.” 

We  could  see  that  he  “ fell  for  it”  at  once,  and  was  merely  pro- 
crastinating in  the  hope  of  getting  more.  That  dream  vanished,  he 
announced  that  he  must  have  a new  hat  and  ruana  for  “ so  important 
a journey.”  We  agreed  to  supply  these  — when  he  turned  up  at  six 
in  the  morning  ready  to  start. 

He  did  not  turn  up.  When  we  had  shivered  into  our  clothes  and 
gone  to  hang  over  our  rcja,  cargadores  male  and  female  were  already 
plentiful  in  the  wintry,  mist-draped  plaza  below,  squatted  inside  their 
ruanas  or  wandering  aimlessly  about  with  a rope  over  one  shoulder. 
Out  of  regard  for  the  proprieties  we  beckoned  to  none  but  the  men. 
It  was  some  time  before  one  — who,  perhaps,  had  not  yet  heard  our 
plans  — appeared  at  the  door.  We  were  careful  to  mention  only  the 
first  town,  a short  day’s  journey  away,  and  offered  fifty  cents,  at  least 
twice  what  he  averaged  in  daily  earnings.  Convinced  we  would  give 
no  more,  he  accepted.  This  time  we  took  good  care  he  should  not 
escape.  When  he  had  bound  the  load  with  his  rope  — the  cargador’s 
one  indispensable  possession  — we  put  him  outside  and  went  to 
breakfast. 

On  our  return  we  found  him  waiting  — naturally.  He  prepared 
for  the  journey,  not  as  we  of  the  north  would  expect,  by  balancing  the 
suitcases  on  opposite  sides,  but  by  slinging  them  both  on  his  back,  the 
rope  cutting  deeply  into  his  shoulder,  and  set  off  bent  so  low,  with 

42 


FROM  BOGOTA  OVER  THE  QUINDIO 


the  weight  chiefly  on  his  hips,  that  he  seemed  some  deformed  crea- 
ture shuffling  along  behind  us. 

At  last  we  were  off,  marching  out  of  the  main  plaza  of  Bogota 
at  eight  on  the  morning  of  August  first.  In  our  flannel  shirts,  even 
with  our  coats  still  on,  we  set  all  the  capital  staring  as  we  passed. 
Hays  carried  a kodak  in  one  pocket  and  Ramsey’s  Spanish  Grammar 
in  the  other ; my  own  apparatus  and  the  overflow  from  my  suitcase 
swung  from  a shoulder  in  a mochila,  or  woven  hemp  bag.  Even  our 
“ One-Volume  Library/’  consisting  of  a few  favorite  bits  in  a half- 
dozen  languages  bound  into  a single  book,  we  had  been  forced  to 
pack  away  on  the  carrier’s  back.  We  had  exchanged  instructions  to 
cover  any  unexpected  outcome  of  the  journey,  those  which  Hays 
had  handed  me  consisting  chiefly  of  the  command,  “ In  the  event  of 
death  with  boots  on,  do  not  remove  the  boots ! ” The  morning  paper 
that  overtook  us  near  the  statues  of  Colombus  and  Isabel  announced 
that  we  had  left  for  Quito  the  day  before,  but  failed  to  specify  on 
foot.  Readers  would  have  taken  it  for  a printer’s  error,  anyway. 

Hays  volunteered  to  shadow  the  carrier  for  the  first  day.  Both  ex- 
perienced enough  to  know  that  the  pleasure  of  traveling  together  is 
enhanced  by  traveling  apart,  we  each  set  our  own  pace,  letting  our 
moods  take  color  from  the  landscape,  drifting  together  now  and  then 
when  hungry  for  companionship,  or  often  enough  to  assure  ourselves 
of  each  other’s  welfare.  Epictetus  says,  “ As  the  bad  singer  cannot 
sing  alone,  but  only  in  chorus,  so  a poor  traveler  cannot  travel  alone, 
but  only  in  company.”  Hays,  having  a mind  of  his  own  to  feed  on, 
was  by  virtue  thereof  an  excellent  traveling  companion. 

At  first  the  way  was  lined  with  houses  of  sun-baked  mud,  and 
peopled  by  dull-eyed,  respectful  Indians  and  haughty  horsemen.  A 
bright  sun,  frequently  clouded  over,  made  it  just  the  day  for  tramping 
in  full  garb.  The  Indian  crawled  along  so  slowly  that  I soon  forged 
ahead.  Beyond  the  outskirts  the  broad  upland  plain  was  cut  into  ir- 
regular fields  by  adobe  walls  or  fences,  often  tile-roofed,  with  massive 
adobe  gate  pillars.  Fields  dense  with  green  Indian  corn  alternated 
with  yellow  stretches  of  ripening  grain.  Here  and  there  potatoes  -were 
being  planted.  Masses  of  big  red  roses,  of  geraniums  and  daisies  and 
unfamiliar  flowers,  frequently  beautified  the  scene.  Two  hours  away 
I caught  the  last  view  of  Bogota,  backed  by  her  black,  mist-topped 
range;  then  the  cloistered  city  sank  forever  from  our  sight  as  the 
road  dipped  down  from  the  slightest  of  knolls  on  the  all  but  floor-flat 
plain. 


43 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


We  had  not  set  out  to  rival  champion  pedestrians.  When  appetite 
suggested,  I stretched  out  at  the  roadside  with  my  pocket  lunch,  read- 
ing Swinburne  the  while  and  scattering  him  page  by  page  on  the 
gusty  winds  of  the  sabana.  Hays  and  our  baggage  drifted  languidly 
past.  All  the  day  we  followed  a massive  stone  highway,  built  by  the 
Spaniards  of  colonial  times,  now  raised  well  above  the  flanking  dirt 
roads  preferred  by  the  soft-footed  travel  of  to-day.  A large  stone 
bridge  of  clumsy  lines  lifted  us  over  the  little  Funza  river  which 
waters  the  sabana,  and  not  far  beyond  we  entered  the  ancient  town  of 
Mosquiera,  on  a main  corner  of  which  stood  a statue  of  the  Virgin, 
unusual  only  for  the  fact  that  she  was  jet-black  of  complexion  as  any 
African  chief.  To  the  South  American  the  color  line  is  not  sharp, 
even  in  his  picture  of  the  after  world.  Some  time  later,  having  drifted 
together  again,  we  met  an  ox-cart  headed  for  Bogota.  The  half- 
Indian  driver,  struck  suddenly  wide-eyed  at  sight  of  our  strange  garb 
and  the  burdened  carrier  behind  us,  cried  out  in  consternation: 
“Como!  No  hay  mas  funcion  en  Bogota?” 

We  appreciated  the  implied  compliment.  He  had  mistaken  us  for 
performers  in  the  “ Keller  Circus,”  a little  fourth-rate  affair  playing 
in  the  capital.  Having,  no  doubt,  saved  up  his  billetes  for  weeks  and 
started  for  town  at  last  with  the  price  of  admission  to  this  wonderful 
“ function,”  he  was  quite  naturally  dismayed  to  meet  what  seemed  to 
be  the  show  treking  southward  before  he  arrived. 

At  three  we  strolled  into  Serrazuela,  officially  named  Madrid. 
Hays’  pedometer  registered  seventeen  miles.  In  the  little  one-story 
“ hotel,”  gaping  with  astonishment  at  our  appearance,  we  were  as- 
signed to  a mat-carpeted  room  opening  on  the  patio,  and  furnished 
with  two  wooden  beds  exactly  five  feet  long,  with  very  thin  reed  mat- 
tresses over  the  board  flooring  that  took  the  place  of  springs.  In 
this  climate  there  was  little  gain  in  traveling  leisurely  and  arriving 
early.  Except  for  a few  hours  near  noon,  it  was  too  cold  to  lounge 
along  the  way;  once  arrived  we  could  only  wander  aimlessly  about 
among  stupid  villagers,  uncommunicative  as  their  baked-mud  walls. 
By  dark  it  had  grown  too  wintry  to  sit  reading  with  comfort,  even  had 
there  been  any  other  light  than  the  pale  flicker  of  a small  candle. 
There  was  nothing  left  but  to  go  to  bed,  and  that  had  little  of  the 
pleasure  the  phrase  suggests  to  American  ears.  When  Hays  set  his 
feet  against  the  footboard,  his  lips  nearly  reached  his  miniature  pillow. 
He  complained  of  feeling  like  the  victim  of  a “ trunk  mystery.” 
Sometime  in  the  night  I awoke  to  hear  him  growling,  “ No  wonder 

44 


A section  of  the  ancient  highway,  built  by  the  Spaniards  more  than  three  centuries  ago, 
leading  from  the  sabana  of  Bogota  down  into  the  hotlands  of  the  Magdalena. 

It  was  not  designed  for  wheeled  traffic,  hence  is  laid  in  steps, 
with  a slope  to  carry  off  the  rains 


Fellow-travelers  at  the  edge  of  the  sabana  of  Bogota 


FROM  BOGOTA  OVER  THE  QUINDIO 


these  people  are  crooked ! ” My  own  was  a folding  bed  — in  that  I 
had  to  fold  up  to  get  into  it. 

Though  we  were  afoot  at  chilly  six,  at  nine  we  were  still  seeking  a 
cargador.  The  one  from  Bogota  had  fled  during  the  darkest  hours. 
Moreover,  he  had  evidently  spread  startling  reports  of  our  plans.  In 
a town  swarming  with  gaunt  and  ragged  out-of-works  we  were  a long 
time  finding  a man  who  admitted  that  he  sometimes  plied  the  voca- 
tion of  carrier.  His  attitude  was  that  of  an  heir  to  unlimited  wealth 
whiling  away  the  days  until  he  came  into  his  own  by  an  occasional 
choice  and  easy  task.  After  an  endless  oration  in  which  he  assured 
us  times  without  number  that  he  was  “ poor  but  honest,”  just  the 
man  required  for  our  “ very  valuable  baggage,”  which  the  “ expensive 
leather  boxes  ” proved  it,  and  which  in  his  hands  would  be  perfectly 
safe  among  the  robbers  that  swarmed  in  the  road  ahead  — providing 
we  walked  close  beside  him  — he  admitted  his  willingness,  as  a special 
favor,  to  accompany  us  to  La  Mesa,  eighteen  miles  away,  for  the 
paltry  sum  of  $200.  We  offered  fifty,  and  he  left  in  well-feigned 
scorn. 

At  the  alcalde’s  office  that  official  had  been  due  only  an  hour  or  so, 
and  naturally  had  not  yet  arrived.  We  spread  our  resplendent  docu- 
ment before  his  hump-shouldered  secretary,  demanding  a cargador  at 
once.  That ’s  the  way  the  haughty  traveler  always  did  in  the  accounts 
we  had  read  of  journeys  in  the  Andes.  But  Serrazuela  was  evidently 
ill-trained.  The  secretary  stepped  to  the  door  and  beckoned  a few 
haughty  rag-displays  nearer,  suggesting  in  a soft  voice  that  perhaps, 
as  a great  favor  to  him  personally,  one  of  them  would  go  with  los 
senores  and  carry  a “ very  light  little  bundlet.”  One  by  one  they  re- 
plied in  as  solemn  tones  as  if  they  fancied  we  believed  them,  that  they 
were  already  engaged  for  the  day,  that  they  had  a lame  knee,  or  a 
sore  back,  or  an  exacting  spouse,  or  were  in  mourning  for  a mother’s 
third  cousin,  and  faded  silently  away.  Among  the  last  to  go  was  our 
original  “ poor  but  honest  ” applicant,  who  paused  to  ask  whether 
the  offer  we  had  made  was  $50  paper  or  $50  gold,  because  if  we  meant 
the  latter  he  . . 

Just  then  the  alcalde’s  perfume  gladdened  our  nostrils,  and  one  of 
the  men,  rounded  up  by  a soldier,  having  accepted  what  was  still  an 
exorbitant  day’s  wage,  we  were  off  at  last.  The  day  was  bright  and 
sunny.  Behind,  across  the  sabana,  masses  of  white  clouds  hung  over 
unseen  Bogota  and  her  distant  black  range.  I could  keep  pace  with 
“ Rain  in  the  Face,”  as  Hays  had  dubbed  our  new  acquisition,  only  by 

45 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


holding  each  foot  a second  or  more  before  setting  it  down.  If  I 
paused  to  let  him  get  a bit  ahead,  he  was  sure  to  wait  for  me  a few 
yards  beyond.  Ten  cents  spent  in  a little  wayside  drunkery  gave  him 
new  life,  but  only  for  a short  half-hour.  Once  he  fell  in  with  a 
friend  driving  an  “ empty  ” donkey,  and  for  a space  we  moved 
a little  less  slowly.  Then  the  friend  turned  off  toward  his  village  and 
with  a groan  “ Rain  in  the  Face  ” took  up  his  burden  again  and 
crawled  snail-like  behind  me. 

Soon  after  we  came  to  the  edge  of  the  world.  The  sabana  had 
ended  abruptly.  Before  us  lay  only  a great  swirling  white  mist  into 
which  disappeared  the  old  Spanish  highway  that  led  in  broad,  low 
steps  down  and  ever  down  into  an  unseen  abyss.  The  carrier  began 
to  tremble  visibly.  The  year  before,  he  confided  in  a choked  whisper, 
he  had  been  held  up  here  by  bandits,  who  had  killed  and  robbed  his 
employer.  Only  when  one  of  us  went  close  in  front  and  the  other 
at  his  heels  could  he  be  induced  to  move  forward  and  downward. 

Now  and  then  a group  of  Indians,  men  and  women  as  heavily  bur- 
dened as  their  pack-animals,  loomed  forth  from  the  clouds  and  toiled 
slowly  upward  past  us.  An  hour  down  we  came  upon  a rock  grotto 
into  which  bareheaded  arrieros  were  crawling  with  lighted  candles. 

“ It  is,”  explained  one  of  them,  “ that  San  Antonio  once  appeared 
here,  and  all  caminantes  stop  to  pray,  because  he  aids,  protects,  and 
betters  us.” 

“Are  you  sure?”  I asked,  curious  to  hear  his  answer. 

“ Sure  ? ” he  cried,  staring  at  me  with  startled  eyes,  “ Senor,  I have 
been  arriero  on  this  road  since  I was  a boy,  always  bringing  a candle 
for  San  Antonio ; in  all  those  years  I have  been  robbed  only  three 
times  — and  then  I had  no  money.” 

He  crossed  himself  thrice  in  the  intricate  South  American  manner 
and  sped  noiselessly  away  into  the  clouds  after  his  animals. 

It  may  have  been  our  failure  to  offer  tribute  to  the  saint  of  the 
grotto  that  all  but  brought  our  expedition  to  grief  thus  early.  The 
mist  had  thinned  and  the  landscape  that  opened  out  became  more  and 
more  tropical.  A single  palm-tree,  then  clusters  of  them,  grew  up 
beside  me.  Banana  plants  and  clumps  of  bamboo,  like  gigantic  ferns, 
nodded  sluggishly ; a spreading  tree  pink  with  blossoms  added  the 
needed  touch  of  color.  Suddenly  I realized  that  my  companions  were 
not  with  me,  and  sat  down  to  wait.  A half-hour  passed.  I strolled 
back  along  the  road,  then  hurried  upward  at  sharper  pace.  Fully  a 
mile  up  I sighted  Hays,  driving  the  wabbly-kneed  Indian  before  him. 

46 


FROM  BOGOTA  OVER  THE  OUINDIO 


They  had  already  tiptoed  on  the  edge  of  an  adventure.  Barely  had  I 
passed  from  view  when  there  had  fallen  in  with  them,  one  by  one, 
four  evil-faced  fellows  carrying  sugarcane  staffs.  As  thirst  came, 
each  fell  to  peeling  and  munching  his  cane.  Hays,  lost  in  some  prob- 
lem of  Urdu  philology,  was  suddenly  recalled  to  the  material  world 
by  a throat  gurgle  from  “ Rain  in  the  Face.”  He  looked  up  to  find 
the  four  wayfarers,  long  sheath-knives  in  hand,  still  ostensibly  engaged 
in  peeling  sugarcane,  but  closing  in  around  him  and  the  shivering 
cargador.  Haysvhad  taken  for  fiction  the  stories  of  dangers  on  the 
road,  and  his  automatic  was  packed  away  on  the  carrier’s  back.  But 
he  had  been  too  long  a soldier  to  betray  anxiety  in  the  face  of 
danger.  The  quartet  continued  their  innocent  occupation,  crowding 
ever  closer,  but  had  not  quite  summoned  up  courage  to  try  their 
fortunes  against  so  stern-featured  a gringo  when  they  fell  in  with 
another  group  of  travelers,  and  the  four  gradually  faded  away 
behind.  Thenceforth  we  took  care  to  wear  our  weapons  in  plain 
sight. 

“ Rain  in  the  Face  ” had  with  great  difficulty  been  coaxed  to  his 
feet  again.  When  darkness  fell,  he  was  still  wheezing  slowly  on- 
ward far  from  the  day’s  goal.  The  abrupt,  stony  descent  was  broken 
now  and  then  by  sharp  rises,  and  we  stumbled  and  sprawled  over 
uncounted  loose  stones  and  solid  boulders.  At  length  white  huts  be- 
gan to  stand  dimly  forth  from  the  night ; the  voices  of  unseen  groups 
in  the  doorways  under  faintly  suggested  thatch  roofs  fell  silent  with 
astonishment  as  we  passed ; and  in  a climate  in  pleasant  contrast  to 
that  of  night-time  Bogota  we  entered  at  last  the  little  hotel  of  La 
Mesa.  “ Rain  in  the  Face  ” set  down  his  load  for  the  last  time  with 
a stage  groan,  grasped  his  fee  after  the  customary  plea  for  more,  and 
with  the  parting  information  that  he  was  “ poor  but  honest,”  raised  his 
wreck  of  a straw  hat  and  disappeared  to  be  seen  no  more. 

Morning  found  us  in  a long  town  on  a shelf-edge  overhanging  a 
great  tumbled  valley,  still  a mile  above  sea-level,  again  facing  the 
problem  of  how  to  make  our  baggage  get  up  and  walk.  When  we  had 
tramped  a hot  and  stony  half-day  without  getting  a yard  further  on 
our  journey,  we  returned  to  the  hotel.  Hays  stretched  out  on  — and 
over  — his  bed  and  drew  out  his  faithful  Ramsey,  bent  on  drowning 
his  worldly  troubles  in  study.  The  first  sentence  that  stepped  forth 
from  the  page,  inviting  translation  into  Spanish,  asserted : 

“ In  South  America  are  many  arid  regions  through  which  travel  and 
the  transportation  of  baggage  is  difficult.” 

47 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


Yet  there  are  those  who  hold  that  text-books  are  not  closely  re- 
lated to  practical  life ! 

Well  on  in  the  day,  however,  we  did  get  two  feeble  youths  to  agree 
to  carry  a suitcase  each  to  Jirardot  for  $180  and  third-class  fare  back 
to  La  Mesa.  At  this  rate  we  could  soon  have  better  afforded  to  build 
a railroad.  Indeed,  we  had  already  reduced  to  an  absurdity  the  ex- 
periment of  trying  to  mix  the  tramp  and  the  gentleman.  “ A sahib,” 
said  Kim,  “ is  always  tied  to  his  baggage.”  It  dominates  every  move- 
ment and  is,  after  all,  of  scant  value  in  proportion  to  the  burden  it 
imposes.  Hire  a carrier  and  he  is  always  intruding  upon  your  dreams 
and  meditations,  and  with  all  the  expense  and  trouble  no  article  of  the 
pack  can  you  lay  hands  on  during  all  the  day’s  tramp.  Moreover,  I 
am  not  of  that  kidney  that  can  make  a beast  of  burden  of  my  fellow- 
man.  I soon  found  that  a cargador  toiling  under  my  load  behind  me 
made  me  far  more  weary  than  to  carry  it  myself.  We  decided  to 
revert  to  type  at  the  next  halt  and  play  the  “ sahib  ” no  longer. 

The  road,  now  chiefly  desheclio  (“unmade”),  descended  swiftly 
into  the  genuine  tropics  and  the  next  afternoon  we  sweated  into 
Jirardot  on  the  Magdalena,  a month  from  the  day  we  had  left  it  to 
ascend  to  Bogota.  For  all  our  resolutions,  however,  neither  of  us 
contemplated  with  pleasure  the  prospect  of  turning  ourselves  into  pack- 
animals.  We  set  afoot  word  that  we  would  pay  a high  monthly  wage 
to  any  lad  with  a stout  back  and  no  particular  grade  of  intelligence 
who  would  consent  to  leave  home.  But  the  youths  of  Jirardot  were 
even  less  ambitious  than  those  of  the  capital.  We  set  a time  limit,  ad- 
vanced it,  and  at  last  fell  upon  our  possessions  with  the  rage  of  de- 
spair. What  we  did  not  succeed  in  throwing  away  we  made  into  two 
bundles  of  the  maximum  weight  allowed  by  parcel-post  and  sent  thefn 
down  the  Magdalena  to  Panama  and  Quito.  We  were  forced  to  sacri- 
fice even  the  “ One-Volume  Library,”  which  did  not  matter,  for  we 
had  found  it  more  convenient  to  buy  native  novels  and  toss  them  away 
leaf  by  leaf,  thus  daily  reducing  our  load.  Moreover,  we  had  resolved 
to  read  thenceforth  only  the  literature  of  the  country  in  which  we  were 
traveling.  Even  then  there  swung  from  our  shoulders  some  fifteen 
pounds  each,  besides  the  awkward  developing-tank  filled  with  films  and 
chemicals  with  which  we  alternately  burdened  ourselves,  when  we 
crossed  the  little  toll-bridge  over  the  Magdalena  and,  leaving  the  de- 
partment of  Cundinamarca  behind,  struck  off  into  that  of  Tolima. 

An  extensive  plain,  half  desert  with  drought  now,  blazing  hot  and 
sandy,  spread  far  away  before  us.  At  first,  mud  huts  were  frequent, 

48 


Approaching  the  Central  Cordillera  of  the  Andes.  A typical  Andean  camino  real,  or  "royal  highway,”  with  a pack-train 

bound  for  the  capital 


FROM  BOGOTA  OVER  THE  QUINDIO 


and  many  country  people  passed  driving  drooping  donkeys.  Curs 
abounded.  Here  and  there  a leper,  squatted  beside  the  trail,  languidly 
held  out  his  supplicating  stumps.  Everywhere  were  the  rock-hard 
hills  of  termite  “ ants,”  sharp-pointed  as  the  volcanoes  of  Guatemala, 
while  trains  of  stinging  red  ones  crossed  the  road  at  frequent  in- 
tervals. Fields  of  tobacco  and  corn  stood  shriveled  beneath  the  un- 
clouded sun ; troops  of  horses  and  mules  laden  with  the  narcotic  weed, 
rolled  into  cigarros  de  Ambalema  and  wrapped  in  dry  plantain- 
leaves,  shuffled  past  in  the  dust  before  their  shrieking  and  whistling 
arrieros,  bound  for  Jirardot  and  modern  transportation.  The  camino 
real,  still  a “ royal  highway  ” in  spite  of  its  condition,  passed  now 
and  then  through  clumsy  swinging  gates  that  marked  the  limits  of 
otherwise  unbounded  haciendas.  We  met  several  haughty  horsemen 
in  ruanas  and  the  conventional  wealth  of  accoutrement,  and  once  a 
cavalcade  of  men  and  women,  the  latter  lurching  uncomfortably  back 
and  forth  on  their  high  side-saddles.  The  half-Indian  peon  dog-trot- 
ting behind  them  carried  on  his  back  a large  chair  with  a sheet  over  it, 
only  the  squalling  that  accompanied  him  suggesting  what  it  con- 
cealed. The  caste  system  was  noticeable  even  here  on  the  broad 
plain.  When  we  had  carriers  behind  us,  natives  afoot  raised  their 
hats  and  horsemen  gave  us  friendly  greetings.  Now,  with  our  pos- 
sessions on  our  own  backs,  we  received  only  frozen  stares,  except  from 
an  occasional  peon  who  grunted  at  us  as  equals.  A few  miles  beyond 
the  Magdalena  we  came  to  the  parting  of  the  ways.  One  sandy  trail 
led  south  to  Neiva  and  Popayan ; the  other,  with  which  we  swung  to 
the  right,  struck  off  for  Ibague  and  the  Ouindio  pass  over  the  Central 
Cordillera  of  the  Andes.  We  took  this  longer  route  to  Quito  that 
we  might  traverse  the  great  Cauca  valley. 

The  pedometer  registered  a mere  ten  miles  when  we  halted  at  an 
adobe  hut  that  to  the  natives  was  a “ very  fine  posada.”  A bedraggled 
old  woman  pottered  nearly  two  hours  over  a stick  fire  in  the  back  yard 
before  she  brought  us  two  fried  eggs  and  a small  dish  of  fried 
plantains,  as  succulent  as  wooden  chips.  Our  “ bed  ” she  prepared 
by  throwing  a reed  mat  on  the  hardest  earth  floor  known  to  geography, 
and  by  no  means  as  level  as  the  surrounding  plain.  My  shoes  and 
leggings  did  poor  service  as  pillow,  and  Hays  charged  Ramsey  with 
lack  of  foresight  in  not  binding  his  grammar  in  upholstered  plush. 
We  were  awakened  from  the  first  nap  by  the  hubbub  of  a group  of 
fellow-travelers,  nearly  all  women,  who  piled  their  bundles  in  a corner 
and  stretched  themselves  out  on  such  floor-space  as  we  had  left  unoc- 

49 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


cupied.  Yet  the  ethics  of  the  road  are  such  in  Spanish-America  that 
we  felt  no  misgiving  in  leaving  our  unprotected  possessions  on  a bench 
at  the  door. 

With  the  first  hint  of  dawn  our  fellow-lodgers  stole  silently  away. 
Hays  was  still  abed  when  I struck  off  in  a gorgeous  morning  across  a 
sea  of  light-brown  bunch-grass,  surrounded  on  all  sides  by  far-off 
mountain  ranges.  Behind,  blue-purple  with  distance,  the  face  of  the 
plateau  on  which  sits  Bogota  in  its  solitude,  stretched  wall-like  across 
the  eastern  horizon,  high  indeed,  yet  how  slightly  above  the  earth  as  a 
whole.  Ahead,  the  snow-clad  rounded  cone  of  Tolima  stood  sharply 
forth  above  a nearer  range  that  cut  off  its  base,  while  a tumbled  moun- 
tain landscape  beyond  promised  less  monotonous  if  more  laborious 
days  to  come. 

A native  carpenter  working  on  the  new  toll  bridge  over  the  brawling 
Collo  river  assured  us  he  would  much  rather  be  on  the  road  with  us, 
but  that  “ unfortunately,’’  he  was  contracted.  For  a time  broken 
ground  and  rocky  foothills  cut  down  our  progress.  Soon  we  were 
back  again  on  a level  plain  of  vast  extent,  a bit  higher  than  the  pre- 
ceding, a garden  spot  in  fertility,  though  largely  uncultivated,  with 
mountains  on  every  hand  and  Tolima  close  on  the  west.  As  I had 
already  found  in  Honduras,  these  upland  plains,  perfectly  level,  cov- 
ered with  grass  but  for  a threading  of  faint  paths  all  following  the 
same  general  direction,  afford  the  finest  walking  in  the  world.  Never 
hard,  always  high  enough  to  catch  a cool  breeze,  often  shaded,  gener- 
ally winding  enough  to  avoid  the  monotony  of  a straight  road,  they 
make  the  journey  like  strolling  across  an  endless  lawn  or  through  some 
vast  orchard.  Now  and  then  we  passed  a tinkling  mule-train,  a 
horseman,  or  an  Indian  short-distance  pedestrian,  but  never  a vehicle 
to  disturb  the  reflective  peace  of  a perfect  tramp.  Every  hour  or  two 
we  drifted  together,  generally  at  a hut  selling  guarapo,  a half-fer- 
mented beverage  of  crude  sugar  and  water,  tasting  mildly  like  cider 
and  extremely  thirst-quenching.  Every  species  of  pack-animal  ap- 
peared,— mules,  horses,  donkeys,  steers,  bulls,  women,  children,  and 
even  men,  all  toiling  eastward.  Often  a dozen  horses  marched  in  a 
sort  of  lockstep,  the  halter  of  each  tied  to  the  tail  of  the  animal  ahead. 
Many  had  one  or  both  ears  cropped  short,  not  by  some  accident  or 
gratuitous  cruelty,  as  we  at  first  imagined,  but  as  a system  of  branding. 
Now  and  then  a shifting  load  brought  an  arriero  running  to  throw  his 
ruana  over  the  animal’s  eyes,  blind-folding  it  until  it  was  prepared  to 

50 


FROM  BOGOTA  OVER  THE  QUINDIO 


go  on  again.  One  mule-train  of  more  than  forty  animals  was  loaded 
with  large  boxes  marked  “ Ausfuhrgut ; Antwerpen,  Colon,  Buenaven- 
tura.” German  goods  consumed  in  Bogota  often  make  this  round- 
about journey, — to  Panama,  by  ship  to  Buenaventura,  by  train  over 
the  western  range,  and  more  than  half  way  across  Colombia  on  pack 
animals,  all  to  avoid  the  exorbitant  rates  of  English-owned  steamers  up 
the  Magdalena. 

The  haciendas  of  this  region,  producing  chiefly  tobacco,  are  owned 
by  absentee  landlords  and  managed  by  mayordomos.  The  peon  labor- 
ers are  paid  twenty  cents  a day  with  food.  Arrieros  on  the  road  aver- 
age fifty  cents  a day  and  “ find  ” themselves.  A few  of  the  latter 
paused  to  inquire  our  destination  and  otherwise  satisfy  a fathomless 
curiosity.  Our  usual  answer, — “ A1  Cauca,”  always  brought  forth  a 
startled, — “Como!  Por  tierra?”  (By  land?).  In  the  Andes  the 
expression  is  used  with  no  thought  of  the  sea  as  an  alternative,  but 
as  the  opposite  of  “A  caballo  ” (On  horseback).  Occasionally  we 
purposely  astounded  an  inquirer  by  telling  the  whole  truth.  After  a 
speechless  moment  in  which  his  face  clouded  over  with  an  unspoken 
accusation,  he  usually  answered  that  though  we  might  perhaps  fancy 
we  were  walking  to  Quito,  we  were  misinformed,  and  hurried  on  after 
his  animals  without  even  the  customary  “ Adios.” 

Now  and  then  we  met  a lone  arriero,  “ singing  his  troubles  to  the 
solitude,”  as  a Colombian  poet  has  it,  and  once  I was  overtaken  by 
a man  who  cried  breathlessly  as  soon  as  his  voice  could  reach  me : 

“ Ha  visto,  senor,  un  muchachito  con  un  burro  vacio,”  to  which  I 
could  only  reply; 

“ No,  I regret  to  have  to  tell  you  that  I have  not  seen  a small  boy 
with  an  empty  donkey,”  and  watch  the  distracted  fellow  race  on  over 

the  horizon. 

We  early  discovered  the  uselessness  of  asking  countrymen  of  the 
Andes  that  simple  little  question : 

“ How  far  is  it  to  — ? ” 

Ramsey  himself  could  not  have  catalogued  all  the  strange  answers 
we  received,  even  in  the  first  few  days.  A few  of  them  ran : 

“ Perhaps  an  hour,  senor.” 

“ Only  an  hour?  ” 

“No  more,  senor,  but  because  there  is  much  cuesta  (ascent  or  de- 
scent) perhaps  it  is  two  or  three  hours.” 

Or  the  reply  came : 


5i 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


“How  far?  On  foot  or  on  horseback,  senor?”  Or,  more  often, 
“By  sea  or  by  land?”  Some,  tossing  their  heads  toward  the  sun, 
replied : 

“ At  evening  prayers  you  are  there,”  or  shook  their  heads  with : 
“No  alcanzan  — you  will  not  arrive,  senores.” 

“ Todavia  ’sta  lejos  — It  is  still  far.” 

“ How  far,  more  or  less ; an  hour,  or  three  days  ? ” 

“ Between  the  two,  senores.” 

“Three  leagues,  then?” 

“ Ma-a-a-a-a-as,  senores, — Much  more.” 

“ Sigue  no  mas  — Just  keep  on  going;  A1  otro  ladito  — On  the 
other  little  side ; A la  vueltita  no  mas  — Around  the  little  corner  no 
more;  Arribita  — A little  above;  No  mas  bajita  queda  — Just  down 
below  it  remains  ” — and  so  on  through  all  the  gamut  of  misinforma- 
tion ; never  a simple  “ So-many  miles.”  Above  all,  it  was  fatal  to  ask 
a leading  question.  The  misinformant  was  sure  to  agree  with  us  at  all 
costs,  evidently  out  of  mere  politeness.  One  might  fancy  the  ancient 
rulers  of  the  Andes  demanded  an  affirmative  answer  from  their  sub- 
jects on  penalty  of  death;  and  the  supposition  would  account  for 
many  of  the  stories  of  miraculous  appearances,  of  place  names  and 
the  like,  gathered  by  the  Conquistadores.  At  best,  we  were  assured : 

“ No  hay  donde  perderse  — There  is  no  place  to  lose  yourselves  ” — 
and  were  almost  sure  to  strike,  within  ten  minutes,  a misleading  fork 
in  the  trail. 

With  fifteen  miles  behind  us  I slipped  gratefully  from  under  my 
awkward  thirty  pounds  before  one  of  a cluster  of  thatched  huts 
called  “ Hotel  Mi  Casa,”  on  the  earth  floor  of  which  two  broken-legged 
cots  were  placed  for  us.  Water  to  drink  was  doled  out  grudgingly ; 
washing  was  a luxury  none  indulged  in.  Hays  was  busy  consuming 
six  home-made  cigars,  called  “ tobacos  comunes,”  that  had  cost  him 
a sum  total  of  one  cent.  As  we  sat  before  the  hovel  watching  the 
sunset  throw  its  reflections  on  the  red  cliffs  of  the  range  behind  us, 
the  day  went  out  like  an  extinguished  lamp  and  the  stars  came  sud- 
denly forth  in  striking  brilliancy.  The  north  star  of  our  home  sky 
was  now  below  the  horizon,  and  many  a long  month  was  due  to  pass 
before  we  should  see  it  again. 

The  plateau  ahead  was  even  vaster  than  it  seemed.  I had  walked 
hours  next  morning  by  one  of  those  easy  haphazard  upland  trails,  and 
still  it  lay  endless  before  me.  Clumps  of  short,  squat  trees  flecked  it 
with  shadows  here  and  there,  but  for  the  most  part  it  was  bare  alike 

52 


Hays,  seated  before  the  “Hotel  Mi  Casa”  and  behind  one  of  his  $5  cigars,  watching  the 
reflection  of  the  sunset  on  the  dull-red,  broken  range  we  had  climbed 
during  a long,  stiff  day 


A bit  of  the  road  by  which  we  mounted  to  the  Quindio  pass  over  the  central  range,  with 
forests  of  the  slender  palms  peculiar  to  the  region.  The  trail  is  more  prone  to 
pitch  headlong  up  or  down  the  mountainside  than  to  follow  a flank 
in  this  orderly  manner 


FROM  BOGOTA  OVER  THE  QUINDIO 

of  the  planting  of  nature  or  man.  Cattle  grazed  on  every  hand,  and 
mule-trains  went  and  came  frequently.  In  every  direction  stood  row 
upon  row  of  jagged  mountain  ranges,  fading  away  into  the  haziest 
distance.  They  seemed  of  a world  wholly  cut  off  from  the  whisper- 
ing stillness  of  the  broad  brown  plain.  Turning,  I could  see  untold 
mile  upon  mile  behind  me.  The  blue  Central  Cordillera  that  shut 
off  the  valley  of  the  Cauca  lay  piled  into  the  sky  ahead.  Like  a hair 
on  a colored  glass,  I could  make  out  our  sharply  ascending  trail  of  the 
days  to  come  crawling  upward  toward  the  Quindio. 

On  the  rim  of  the  mountain  lap  that  holds  Ibaque,  spread  about 
a bulking  church  at  the  base  of  the  first  great  buttresses  of  the  chain,  I 
came  upon  Hays  in  the  shade  of  a leper’s  hut.  Before  the  marks  of 
his  ailment  came  upon  him  the  outcast  had  climbed  with  his  mules  for 
many  years  back  and  forth  over  the  great  barrier,  and  something  like 
a tear  glistened  in  his  eye  as  we  turned  our  faces  toward  the  land  of 
his  youth.  The  “ Hotel  Paris,”  in  the  town  below,  looked  a century 
old  with  its  quaint  wooden  rejas  of  colonial  days  to  peer  out  through 
— and  also  in  at,  as  a half-intoxicated  ibagueno  demonstrated  by 
thrusting  his  face  in  upon  us  while  we  were  battling  with  the  stains 
of  travel.  When  I took  him  to  task,  he  answered  wonderingly,  “ Why, 
every  one  does  it,  senor,”  and  refused  to  take  any  hint  short  of  a basin 
of  water. 

Ibague,  capital  of  the  province  of  Tolima,  claims  2300  “ souls.” 
The  count  takes  much  for  granted.  It  is  a peaceful,  roomy  little  town 
on  a gentle,  grassy  slope  where  every  resident  has  ample  space  to  put 
up  his  chalky  little  straw-roofed  cottage,  yet  all  toe  the  street  line, 
as  if  fearful  of  missing  anything  that  might  unexpectedly  pass. 
Square-cornered,  with  almost  wholly  one-story  buildings,  its  calles 
are  atrociously  cobbled,  the  few  sidewalks  worn  perilously  slippery 
and  barely  wide  enough  for  two  feet  at  once.  A stream  of  crystal- 
clear  water  gurgles  down  each  street  through  cobbled  gutters,  lulling 
the  tr<avel-weary  to  sleep  — and  furnishing  a convenient  means  of 
washing  photographic  films.  We  drank  less  often,  however,  after  we 
had  strolled  up  to  the  edge  of  the  mountain  and  found  three  none-too- 
handsoine  ladies  bathing  in  the  reservoir. 

On  a corner  of  the  grass-grown  plaza  the  nephews  of  Jorge  Isaacs, 
greatest  of  Colombian  novelists,  run  a clothing  store.  But  it  was  our 
misfortune  to  find  them  out  of  town.  On  another  corner  I made  my 
way  tip  an  aged  stone  stairway  of  one  of  the  rare  two-story  buildings 
of  Ibague  to  the  alcalde’s  office.  It  was  lined  with  dog-eared  docu- 

53 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


ments,  all  hand-written,  each  batch  marked  with  a year,  before  which 
lounged  clerks  incessantly  rolling  cigarettes.  When  he  had  read  our 
government  paper  in  a stage  whisper,  the  youthful  mayor  at  once  put 
the  town  entirely  at  our  disposal.  I suggested  schools. 

“ Senor  Ministro  de  Instruccion  Publica!  ” he  called  out,  with  long, 
oratorical  cadences. 

Instantly  there  tiptoed  into  the  room  a long,  tremulous  man  of  fifty, 
almost  shabbily  dressed,  though  of  course  with  what  had  once  been  a 
white  collar,  with  a pedagogical  cast  of  countenance  and  a chin  barely 
an  inch  below  his  upper  lip.  He  bowed  low  at  the  alcalde’s  orders 
and  answered  that  the  matter  would  be  attended  to  at  once  — manana. 

Toward  ten  next  morning  the  Minister  of  Public  Instruction,  who 
had  evidently  laundered  his  collar  during  the  night,  left  a long  line  of 
people  waiting  and  set  off  with  me. 

“ They  are  only  teachers,  waiting  for  their  appointments  or  salaries,” 
he  explained. 

We  halted  before  a large  building.  The  Minister  knocked  meekly 
with  his  cane  on  the  heavy  saguan,  the  door  to  the  patio,  and  was 
finally  admitted  by  a square-faced,  muscular,  unshaven  priest,  who 
listened  to  our  request  at  some  length  and  at  last  led  us  to  an  older 
churchman,  suave,  slender,  outwardly  effusive,  and  of  that  perfectly 
polished  exterior  that  marks  the  Jesuit.  He  was  also  French.  When 
time  enough  had  elapsed  to  give  warning  of  our  coming,  he  led  the 
way  into  a room  of  first-grade  pupils, — all  boys  of  six  or  seven,  except 
two  full-grown  Indian  youths.  An  exceedingly  young  priest,  giving 
an  excellent  imitation  of  surprise  at  our  appearance,  snapped  a sort 
of  wooden  hand-clapper,  and  the  entire  class  rose  to  their  feet  bowing 
profoundly.  Some  other  formality  was  imminent  when  I begged  the 
teacher  to  go  on  with  the  lesson  just  as  if  I were  not  there.  He 
exchanged  a glance  with  his  superior  at  this  extraordinary  gringo  re- 
quest, then  lined  the  class  up  in  military  ranks  and  set  them  to  reading 
aloud.  The  theme  was  strictly  religious  in  nature  and  most  of  the 
words  of  four  or  five  syllables.  As  often  as  the  clapper  sounded,  the 
boys  changed  to  “ next  ” and  read  with  such  fluency  that  only  the  tail- 
end  of  a phrase  here  and  there  was  intelligible.  The  priest  made  no 
corrections  or  criticisms  whatever,  “ taught,”  indeed,  as  he  might  have 
turned  a hurdy-gurdy  handle.  I fancied  the  pupils  extraordinarily 
well-trained  — until  I strolled  down  the  room,  to  the  evident  horror  of 
the  adults,  and  noted  that  almost  none  of  them  had  the  book  open  at 
the  page  they  were  “ reading.” 


54 


FROM  BOGOTA  OVER  THE  QUINDIO 


In  a higher-grade  room  I was  asked  to  choose  the  lesson,  and  sug- 
gested geography.  A youth  passed  a pointer  swiftly  over  a wall-map, 
spinning  off  a description,  learned  by  rote,  of  the  principal  cities,  the 
youthful  priest  lifting  him  back  on  the  track  whenever  he  forgot  the 
exact  language  of  the  original  and  came  to  a wordless  halt.  Little 
helpful  hints  accompanied  each  question.  A boy  stood  before  the 
map  of  Colombia,  on  which  the  capital  was  printed  in  enormous  let- 
ters. 

“What  city  did  Quesada  found  in  1538?”  asked  the  priest. 

Blank  silence  from  the  boy. 

The  priest : “Bo  — bogo  — ” 

“ Bogota ! ” shouted  the  boy. 

My  fellow-visitors  smiled  complacently  at  his  wisdom. 

“ And  what  place  is  this  ? ” quizzed  the  teacher,  pointing  to  a strip 
of  land  that  curved  like  a tail  up  into  a corner  of  the  map,  “ Pa  — 
Pana— ” 

“ Panama  ” shrieked  the  boy,  “ A province  of  Colombia  which  is 
now  in  rebellion.  The  . . .” 

He  was  evidently  going  on  with  still  more  startling  information 
when  the  all  but  imperceptible  twitching  of  an  eye  of  the  Jesuit  superior 
turned  the  pointer  to  other  climes. 

The  teacher  never  lost  an  opportunity  to  give  a religious  twist  to  the 
proceedings.  A boy  whose  pointer  hovered  over  the  Mediterranean 
mumbled : 

“ And  another  of  the  cities  is  Nicea.  . . .” 

“ Ah,”  cried  the  priest,  “ And  what  celebrated  event  in  the  history 
of  mankind  took  place  in  Nicea?” 

“ The  great  Council  of  the  Church  in  which  . . .”  began  the  youth, 
and  rattled  on  as  glibly  as  if  he  had  been  there  in  person. 

When  we  had  turned  out  into  the  street,  the  shabby  little  Ministro 
became  confidential,  explaining  that  the  colegio  toward  which  we  were 
headed  had  once  held  a large  student  body,  “ but  now,  senor,  owing  to 
political  changes.  . . .” 

“ Before  the  priests  interfered  I had  an  excellent  experienced  normal 
graduate  in  charge  of  that  first  class,”  he  sighed  as  we  parted,  “ and 
now  we  have  that  boy  in  a cassock.  Bah ! ” 

We  left  Ibague  by  taking  the  wrong  road  and  had  to  crawl  for  miles 
along  the  steep  bank  of  a mountain  stream  almost  back  to  town  before 
we  were  set  right.  Then  began  one  of  the  greatest  climbs  of  our  joint 
careers.  Round  and  round,  in  intoxicated  zigzags,  went  the  trail, 

55 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


as  if  dizzy  at  the  task  before  it,  down  into  several  gullies  until  at  last, 
finding  no  other  means  of  escape,  it  took  to  clambering  laboriously  up- 
ward. At  first  the  weather  was  hot,  then  gradually  cooled  as  far- 
reaching  views  of  Ibague  and  its  surroundings  spread  out  below  us. 
The  buttresses  of  the  range  ahead  were  enormous,  as  if  nature,  plan- 
ning to  build  here  such  a mountain  chain  as  never  before,  had  started 
the  outcropping  supports  on  her  most  gigantic  scale.  Toward  nine 
I realized  that  I was  out  of  the  sunshine  and  no  longer  sweating, 
despite  the  swiftness  of  the  ascent;  at  ten  I paused  to  pick  wild  straw- 
berries along  the  way.  It  did  not  seem  possible  to  mount  much 
further,  for  there  was  nothing  higher  visible.  But  like  Jack  of  the 
Beanstalk,  I climbed  on  entirely  out  of  sight  — into  the  clouds  that 
wholly  shut  off  the  world  below.  At  noon,  when  I stretched  out  on  a 
swift  slope  to  read  a few  pages  of  “ Maria,”  immense  reaches  of 
mountains  and  cloud-stenciled  valleys,  half-hidden  by  masses  of  snow- 
white  mist,  like  drapery  that  concealed  yet  revealed  their  plump, 
feminine  forms,  lay  everywhere  below  and  about  me.  Over  all  the 
tumbled  view  were  scattered  little  huts  of  mountaineers,  each  in  a 
setting  it  seemed  possible  to  have  reached  only  on  wings. 

The  hovel  where  we  planned  to  spend  the  night  refused  us  posada, 
and,  as  dusk  fell,  we  faced  an  all  but  perpendicular  mountain  wall,  up 
the  stony,  half-wooded  face  of  which  the  trail  staggered.  The  few 
groups  of  men  we  met  carried  ancient  rifles  loosely,  as  if  constantly 
ready  for  action.  At  dark  I toiled  to  a summit  to  find  Hays  standing 
before  a mud  rancho  arguing  with  the  crude  mountaineers  who  would 
have  sent  us  on  into  the  night  with  the  threadbare  Spanish  prevarica- 
tion, “ Only  a little  further  on  there  is  another  house  all  ready  to  re- 
ceive you.”  In  its  utter  lack  of  comfort  the  place  resembled  the  moun- 
tain hamlets  of  northwestern  Spain.  The  people  were  shy,  yet,  once 
won  over,  kind-hearted.  “ There  is  no  bed,”  they  explained,  “ but 
there  is  perhaps  a leather  you  can  sleep  on.”  By  and  by  the  woman 
called  us  into  the  kitchen  for  a bowl  of  caldo,  hot  water  with  chunks 
of  potato  and  an  egg  dropped  in  it,  served  with  coarse  corn-bread. 
Then  the  man  led  the  way  into  a cell  made  entirely  of  mud,  even  to 
the  bench  along  the  wall,  on  which  he  laid  a hairy,  sun-dried  cowhide. 
Fortunately  he  returned  a little  later  with  several  aged  gunny-sacks, 
a tiny  girl  lighting  the  way  with  a rope-like  native  candle,  or  we  should 
not  have  slept  even  the  bit  we  did. 

Streaks  of  pale  day  were  beginning  to  steal  through  the  chinks  in 
our  chamber  when  the  woman  appeared  with  black  coffee  and  a stony 

56 


FROM  BOGOTA  OVER  THE  QUINDIO 


corn  biscuit,  and  we  were  off  for  another  day  of  stiff  ups  and  downs. 
Stalking  down  a knee-breaking  descent,  I heard  a shout  of  astonish- 
ment from  Hays  ahead.  What  looked  like  an  ordinary  mountain 
stream  cut  across  the  trail  at  the  bottom  of  a sharp  little  gully.  But 
the  water,  coming  from  the  bowels  of  Tolima  that  stood  somewhere 
above  us  in  the  mists  of  morning,  was  almost  hot.  We  had  both 
been  on  the  road  in  many  a clime,  but  never  before  where  nature  was 
kind  enough  to  heat  a morning  bath  for  us.  We  lost  no  time  in 
stripping  for  a luxury  rare  to  the  traveler  in  Colombia. 

Not  far  beyond  we  came  to  the  edge  of  the  valley  of  the  Toche. 
Away  below,  like  a miniature  painting,  reposed  a peaceful  little  vale 
wholly  shut  in  by  sheer  mountain  walls,  a thread-like  stream  meander- 
ing the  length  of  it.  It  took  us  an  hour  to  make  the  swift,  stony 
descent.  Not  all  get  down  so  safely,  as  the  skeletons  of  a horse  and 
a mule,  their  shoes  still  on,  testified.  The  valley  floor,  watered  by  the 
rock-broiling  stream,  was  a fertile  patch  of  earth,  and  the  steep  moun- 
tain flanks  were  planted  far  up  with  little  perpendicular  patches  of 
corn.  All  the  scene  seemed  as  far  removed  from  the  wide  world  as 
if  on  another  sphere. 

A rocky  trail  climbed  abruptly  up  out  of  the  valley  again  from  the 
further  end,  higher  than  ever,  past  rare  houses,  built  of  the  red  boards 
of  a tree  called  ccdro,  from  the  doors  of  which  stared  shy,  half- 
friendly people  in  bedraggled  tatters.  The  Quindio  pass  lies  only 
11,440  feet  above  the  sea,  but  that  by  no  means  represents  the  climb- 
ing necessary  to  surmount  the  Central  Cordillera  of  the  Andes.  What 
is  so  called  is  really  a long  series  of  ranges,  and  no  sooner  did  the 
road  reach  some  lofty  summit  than  it  dived  as  swiftly  and  roughly 
down  again.  It  was  not  a planned  road,  like  the  highways  of  the 
Alps,  but  one  grown  up  of  itself.  A jaguar  once  wandered  over  the 
Cordillera,  a man  followed,  and  to-day  the  route  holds  to  the  same 
course.  Toiling  like  draft-animals,  gasping  for  breath  in  the  rarefied 
air,  we  fancied  a score  of  times  that  we  had  reached  the  summit,  only 
to  see  the  trail  take  another  switchback  and  disclose  the  perfidious  fact 
that  it  had  found  another  ridge  to  surmount. 

A few  hundred  feet  above  the  Toche  began  clumps,  then  entire 
forests  of  a tall,  slender  wax-palm,  a species  named  by  Humboldt  on 
bis  journey  over  the  Quindio.  Having  only  a tuft  of  branches  at  the 
top,  these  were  often  torn  off  by  the  winds  that  rage  down  through 
the  gullies,  leaving  a thing  as  unromantic  as  a telegraph-pole.  The 
valley  below  opened  out  until  half  a world,  dull-brown  with  a tinge 

57 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


of  green,  lay  below  and  around  us.  Words  are  hopelessly  inadequate 
to  describe  this  bird’s  eye  view  of  range  upon  range,  climbing  pell- 
mell  one  over  the  other,  as  if  in  terror  to  escape  some  savage  pursuer, 
and  fading  away  into  the  dimmest  misty-blue  distance. 

The  sun  was  low  when  we  came  out  on  as  far-reaching  a view  ahead 
and  saw  the  morrow’s  task  laid  out  before  us  in  the  form  of  a thread- 
like road  twisting  away  out  of  sight  over  a great  mountain  barrier 
draped  in  clouds,  the  “ puro  Quindio,”  or  chief  range,  at  last.  As 
night  descended,  we  entered  “ Volcancito,”  an  unusually  large  adobe 
building  on  a bleak  slope.  The  dining-room,  which  was  also  the  back 
corredor,  was  overrun  by  a large  family,  chiefly  small  girls,  each  in  a 
single,  thin,  knee-high  cotton  garment,  despite  the  wintry  mountain 
air.  Chickens,  dogs,  and  gaunt,  self-assertive  pigs  wandered  every- 
where without  restraint.  In  a corner  slouched  a woman  sewing  gar- 
ments too  small  for  the  smallest  child  in  sight.  Our  plea  for  lodging 
she  treated  with  scorn.  “ Volcancito  ” was  a posada,  not  a hotel,  the 
difference  between  the  two  in  Spanish-America  being  that  in  a hotel 
the  traveler  is  permitted  to  expect  certain  conveniences  while  in  a 
posada  he  accepts  with  smiling  gratitude  whatever  fortune  chooses  to 
furnish  him. 

“ We  have  only  two  guest  rooms,”  snapped  the  woman,  when  we 
persisted,  as  if  the  mere  giving  of  the  information  was  an  unusual 
favor.  “ One  this  senor  has  with  his  wife  and  baby.  The  other  belongs 
to  the  arrieros.” 

The  successful  guest  was  an  actor  on  his  way  from  the  Cauca  to 
Bogota,  a handsome  fellow  much  over-dressed  for  such  a journey, 
with  a strikingly  beautiful  young  wife,  as  we  noted  at  a glance  through 
the  door. 

“ But  there  are  five  rooms  on  this  side  of  the  house,”  I suggested. 

“ Family  rooms,”  shot  back  the  woman. 

“ And  this  little  room  in  the  corner  ? ” 

“ Belongs  to  the  servant,”  she  mumbled,  projecting  her  lips  toward 
a slatternly  young  female  who  was  at  that  moment  pursuing  a thieving 
pig  from  the  dungeon-like  kitchen. 

“ Anything  will  do,”  sighed  Hays,  gazing  abstractedly  after  the 
servant. 

But  the  landlady  was  in  no  mood  for  crude  jokes. 

“ There  is  a fine  house  with  rooms  and  beds  just  four  cuadros  on,” 
she  lied,  after  a long  silence.  Fortunately  this  was  by  no  means  my 
first  experience  with  the  favorite  trick  of  Spanish-speaking  races  to  be 

58 


FROM  BOGOTA  OVER  THE  QUINDIO 


rid  of  importunate  guests,  or  we  might  have  tramped  all  night  on  the 
mountain  top  in  a cold  as  penetrating  as  that  of  January  in  our  own 
land.  I slipped  surreptitiously  from  under  my  pack,  assuming  the 
ingratiating  manner  that  is  the  last  resort  with  the  apathetic  people  of 
the  Andes.  We  were  resolved  to  spend  the  night  there,  though  it  be 
in  walking  the  floor.  Nothing  is  more  fatal  than  to  appear  anxious 
in  such  situations,  however,  and  we  affected  indifference  and  a pre- 
tense of  having  accepted  her  verdict. 

What  fine,  red-cheeked  little  girls  she  had,  so  pretty  and  healthy. 
(Indeed,  they  looked  like  Irish  children).  Was  she  not  from  the 
Cauca?  She  was.  Ah,  the  magnificent  Cauca,  the  most  beauti- 
ful. . . . She  was  soon  lost  in  a panegyric  of  her  native  valley,  as  she 
shuffled  from  kitchen  to  sewing-machine  and  back  again. 

“ Magnificent,  indeed,”  I agreed,  “ and  in  only  a day  or  two  we  shall 
be  there.  So  what  matters  a night  of  freezing  in  the  mountains?  By 
the  way,  la  senora  can  perhaps  sell  us  a bit  of  coffee  and  a bite  to  eat 
before  we  set  out  to  tramp  all  night  ? ” 

She  grunted  assent  and  a half-hour  later  we  were  seated  before  a 
plentiful,  if  not  epicurean,  meal.  Before  we  had  finished  it,  she  re- 
marked casually  that  we  might  “ arrange  ourselves  ” in  the  room  with 
the  arrieros.  The  mule-driver  is  seldom  a pleasant  bed-fellow,  but 
compared  with  a night  out  of  doors,  probably  with  rain,  at  more  than 
two  miles  above  sea-level,  any  arrangement  was  welcome. 

We  fancied  lodging  had  first  been  refused  us  because  we  were 
foreigners.  Soon  after  supper  we  were  undeceived.  Out  of  the 
darkness  came  the  sound  of  horse’s  hoofs,  and  as  it  ceased  there  burst 
in  upon  us  a handsome  young  Colombian,  of  somewhat  dissolute  fea- 
tures, in  the  ruana,  false  trouser-legs,  ringing  cartwheel  spurs,  and 
the  other  hundred  and  one  details  of  equipment  the  rules  of  society 
require  of  a Colombian  of  “ gente  decente  ” rank  who  travels  ahorse. 
He  gave  greeting  in  the  explosive  speech  of  his  class  and  requested 
lodging. 

" No  hay,”  answered  the  woman,  in  the  identical  cold  monotone  she 
had  used  toward  us. 

The  new-comer  began  dancing  on  air,  waving  his  lady-like  hands, 
on  which  gleamed  several  rings,  above  him.  Eloquence  worthy  of  a 
world  congress  poured  from  his  lips;  his  eyes  seemed  to  spurt  fire. 

“ No  hay,”  repeated  the  landlady,  in  the  same  dead  voice. 

“ But  senora,  it  is  imperative.  I have  a lady  with  me ! Anything 
will  do  — such  as  these  rooms.” 


59 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


“ Family  rooms,”  snapped  the  caucana,  as  if  reciting  a learned  dia- 
logue. 

“ But  your  guest  rooms  ? ” 

“ One  this  sehor  has  with  his  wife  and  baby.  The  other  belongs  to 
the  arrieros  — and  also,”  jerking  her  head  slightly  toward  us,  “ to  these 
two  caballeros.” 

“ But  what  am  I to  do  ? ” shrieked  the  Colombian,  “ and  a lady  with 
me  ? ” 

The  woman  muttered  a “ Quien  sabe  ” with  a careless  shrug  of  the 
shoulders  and  continued  her  sewing  without  looking  up.  After  a last 
vain  oration  the  Colombian  dashed  off  angrily,  his  horseback  garments 
standing  out  at  excited  angles,  and  rode  away  into  the  night  the  way 
we  had  come,  toward  better  luck  perhaps  among  the  huts  at  the 
bottom  of  the  valley. 

Bedtime  comes  at  about  seven  in  these  wintry,  fireless,  lightless 
regions.  The  landlady,  now  thoroughly  mollified,  broke  off  some  story 
of  the  wonders  of  the  Cauca  to  say : 

“ Next  to  the  room  of  the  arrieros  is  a harness-room  where  you  can 
sleep  alone.  Many  ingleses  — all  light-haired  foreigners  are  “ Eng- 
lishmen ” to  the  rural  Colombian  — have  slept  in  it. 

Why  had  she  not  offered  us  this  upon  our  arrival?  Lack  of  confi- 
dence, probably,  common  to  these  simple  people  as  is  the  good-hearted- 
ness that  can  be  unearthed  by  a few  simple  wiles  and  flatteries.  The 
dungeon-like  room  was  narrow,  but  long  and  high,  strewn  with  the 
aparejo  of  mules  and  the  crude  implements  of  husbandry,  with 
harnesses,  pack-saddles  and  a chaos  of  trappings,  but  with  space  left 
to  spread  on  the  earth  floor  several  tar-cloth  wrappings  of  mule-loads. 
Moreover,  the  woman  sent  us  a blanket.  Later  a boy  entered  carrying 
a candle  and  a little  round  hard  pillow  which  he  delivered  with  a 
speech  apologetic  with  diminutives,  after  the  fashion  of  the  country 
people  of  the  Andes,  “ Aqui  tienen  u’te’es  una  almohadita  para  poner 
la  cabecita.” 

For  all  these  unexpected  luxuries,  I can  hardly  say  we  slept  well. 
Before  an  hour  had  passed,  a polar  winter  began  to  creep  up  through 
the  earth  floor,  through  the  tar-cloth,  through  our  flesh  and  bones,  and 
what  with  the  aching  of  hips  and  other  salient  points  that  fitted  the 
uneven  earth  poorly,  the  night  passed  in  an  endless  series  of  dream- 
fights  against  death  in  the  polar  seas.  As  my  legs  grew  cold  beyond 
endurance,  I found  a pair  of  zamarras,  the  false  trouser-legs  of  im- 
pervious cloth  worn  by  horsemen  of  the  region.  But  my  glee  quickly 

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FROM  BOGOTA  OVER  THE  QUINDIO 


evaporated,  for  they  proved  to  be  designed  for  a half-grown  boy. 
Humboldt  spent  ten  days  in  passing  the  Quindio,  we  sincerely  hoped 
he  had  been  better  supplied  with  blankets,  even  though  his  journey 
was  in  the  summer  season. 

For  once  we  felt  no  anger  when  a hoarse  rooster  at  last  greeted  the 
first  graying  of  the  darkness.  The  entire  night  had  been  a half-con- 
scious battle  for  the  cobija  that  had  covered  us  alternately.  With 
creaking  legs  I stepped  out  into  the  icy  dawn,  and  washed  in  a wind 
that  cut  through  me  as  a rapier  through  a man  of  straw.  It  was 
still  gray-black,  and  vast  seas  of  half-seen  mist  lay  in  the  bottomless 
chasms  roundabout.  Far  away  to  tbe  east,  where  the  dawn  and  the 
warmth  come  from,  was  a triangular  patch  of  sky,  low  down  between 
two  ranges  and  roofed  with  black  clouds,  in  which  the  brilliant  sun- 
shine of  the  ticrra  caliente  was  already  blazing  red.  One  of  the 
bravest  acts  of  my  life  was  the  stripping  and  changing  to  road  garb, 
after  which  we  joined  the  family  and  our  fellow-guests,  huddled  under 
shawls  and  blankets,  with  folds  of  woolen  cloth  about  their  throats  and 
over  their  noses.  The  landlady,  still  abed,  issued  orders  from  within 
to  her  bare-legged  girls  and  the  servant.  One  of  these  threw  into  a 
pot  of  boiling  water  a mud-ball  of  native  chocolate,  swirled  the  mess 
with  a stick,  and  served  it  to  us  with  a dough-cake  mixture  of  mashed 
corn  and  rice.  It  was  no  homeopathic  food,  but  none  lasts  long  in 
this  thin,  exhilarating  air,  while  climbing  swift  mountain  flanks.  When 
we  inquired  for  our  bill,  the  woman  called  out  that  we  owed  twenty 
cents  each,  and  bade  us  Godspeed  to  her  beloved  Cauca. 

The  road  was  heavy  and  slippery  with  the  rain  that  had  fallen 
during  the  night;  the  air  still  sharp  and  penetrating.  We  had  all  but 
spent  the  night  on  the  summit  of  the  Quindio,  for  the  highest  point 
was  but  three  miles  beyond,  though  three  miles  of  climbing  without 
respite.  Most  of  the  world  was  shut  off  by  great  cloud-banks,  out  of 
which  came  frequently  the  bawling  of  arrieros  cursing  their  weary 
animals  upward.  Now  and  then  we  stopped  on  knolls  above  the  trail 
to  watch  these  Andean  freight-trains  pass.  Many  of  the  pack-animals 
were  bulls  and  steers,  of  slight  strength  as  such  compared  to  the 
horse  or  mule,  but  the  surest,  if  slowest,  cargo-beast  in  muddy  going. 
The  arrieros,  almost  without  exception,  wore  as  ruanas  what  had 
once  been  United  States  mail-sacks,  the  stripes  and  lettering  still 
clear  upon  them. 

There  were  several  ridges  so  nearly  alike  in  altitude  that  the  exact 
summit  might  easily  have  been  in  dispute ; but  at  last  we  reached  the 

61 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


dividing  line  between  the  departments  of  Tolima  and  the  Cauca, 
marked  with  a weather-blackened  post  planted  roundabout  with  scores 
of  little  twig  crosses  set  up  by  pious  arrieros  and  travelers.  We  were 
so  completely  surrounded  by  impenetrable  swirling  mist  that  we  could 
see  nothing  whatever  but  the  patch  of  cold,  wet  ground  underfoot,  a 
few  dismal  dripping  bushes,  and  here  and  there  a dishevelled  shiver- 
ing flower  of  some  hardy  species.  Not  a glimpse  was  to  be  had  of 
snow-clad  Tolima  that  must  lie  piled  into  the  mist  somewhere  close 
at  hand.  It  was  the  highest  either  of  us  had  ever  been  in  the  world. 
While  we  appreciated  the  eminence,  it  was  no  place  for  men  gifted 
with  profane  vocabularies  to  linger,  and  we  were  soon  legging  it  down 
the  western  slope  out  of  Cloudland. 


62 


CHAPTER  IV 


ALONG  THE  CAUCA  VALLEY 

ON  the  Cauca  side,  like  the  French  slope  of  the  Pyrenees,  the 
Central  Cordillera  of  the  Andes  descends  almost  abruptly  to 
the  valley.  As  we  emerged  from  the  clouds,  a brilliant  sun 
lighted  up  vast  landscapes  of  labyrinthian  hills  and  vales  mottled  with 
cloud  shadows,  bits  of  our  road  ahead  scratched  here  and  there  on 
salient,  sun-polished  knobs  and  slopes  far  below.  With  noon  ap- 
peared the  first  broad  view  of  the  rolling  Cauca  valley,  nestled  between 
the  central  and  the  western  ranges,  a bare  thousand  feet  above  sea- 
level,  still  deep-blue  as  some  mountain-girdled  lake.  The  little  town 
of  Salento,  in  the  lap  of  an  undulating,  bright  green  plain,  rose  slowly 
up  to  meet  us.  We  marched  to  the  alcalde’s  office  in  a weak-kneed 
building  of  compacted  clay,  only  to  find  the  alcalde,  like  beds  for 
travelers,  out  of  town.  A stupid  clerk  in  a room  full  of  musty  papers 
of  varying  antiquity  admitted  it  was  too  bad  Salento  was  so  atrasado, 
but  made  no  move  to  decrease  that  backwardness. 

“And  strangers  who  arrive?”  I asked. 

“ Generally  bring  their  beds  with  them,”  he  replied,  “ or,  if  not,  they 
do  the  best  they  can.” 

We  took  the  hint  and  forcible  possession  of  an  empty  room  opening 
on  the  plaza.  When,  after  a basin  bath,  I strolled  out  into  the  town 
to  mention  our  strange  exotic  desire  for  sleeping  accommodations,  a 
dozen  of  the  most  influential  citizens  also  admitted  it  was  too  bad  and 
— and  where  did  we  come  from  and  where  were  we  going?  Hays  for 
once  had  better  luck.  Having  left  the  mention  of  beds  to  simmer  in 
the  mind  of  one  Sanchez,  who  amused  himself  at  shop-keeping  on  a 
corner  of  the  square,  he  was  called  over  at  dark  and  offered  the  use 
of  several  woolly  white  blankets  that  hung  for  sale  from  the  blackened 
beams  of  the  shop  ceiling.  Sanchez  was  shocked  beyond  measure 
when  we  started  to  carry  them  across  the  plaza  ourselves.  He  called 
for  a boy,  nine  responded,  and  the  winner  expressed  great  gratitude 
when  we  rewarded  him  with  a ragged  paper  cent.  We  improvised 
seats  and  sat  gazing  out  through  the  wooden  reja.  Far  away  on  a 

63 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


fuzzy  hillside  our  road  of  the  morning  grew  dim  and  faded  out,  like  an 
unfixed  photograph,  and  a night  lighted  only  by  stars  quickly  settled 
down.  Out  of  its  black  immensity  came,  a little  later,  the  jangling  of 
tiny  bells.  Across  the  plaza  filed  a half  hundred  boys  in  column  of 
twos,  weirdly  lighted  by  flickering  torches,  utterly  silent  in  their  bare 
feet.  From  another  direction  came  a similar  half-seen  procession  of 
girls;  the  two  columns  joined  at  the  door  of  the  little  bamboo  church, 
the  pagoda-like  twin  towers  of  which  stood  dimly  forth  against  the 
background  of  darkness,  and  passed  within  together.  For  an  hour  a 
weird  infantile  chanting  in  chorus  sounded  almost  unbrokenly,  then 
the  congregation  filed  forth  again  and  melted  away  into  the  humid 
summer  night.  The  faint  silhouette  of  the  priest  showed  him  leaning 
over  the  reja  of  his  second-story  casa  cural,  the  fitful  glow  of  his  ciga- 
rette the  only  light  in  town,  until  that,  too,  died  out  and  left  only  the 
brilliant  tropical  stars  above. 

Beyond  Salento  a rolling  fertile  land  lay  on  every  hand.  In  the 
great  forests  spreading  far  up  the  range  beside  and  behind  us,  the 
most  conspicuous  of  the  flora  was  the  yarumo,  a white-leaved  tree  that 
stood  forth  everywhere  like  blotches  on  the  green  landscape.  The 
slender  wa^c-palm  of  the  eastern  slope  had  not  passed  the  crest.  The 
dense-green  uplands  of  the  valley  were  still  all  but  covered  with  virgin 
forests.  It  set  us  reflecting  what  might  have  been  had  the  “ May- 
flower ” turned  southward  and  peopled  this  land  of  rich  soil  and  un- 
rivalled climate,  instead  of  that  bleak  and  rigorous  country  we  had  left 
behind.  Or  would  this  peerless  climate  have  made  us,  too,  salentinos  ? 

At  the  hut  where  we  paid  two  cents  for  great  bowls  of  creamy  milk, 
there  was  a decision  to  make.  One  branch  of  the  trail  led  to  Pereira, 
the  other  to  Filandia.  We  tossed  a coin.  It  fell  “ tails  ” and  we 
struck  off  to  the  left  by  a soft  dirt  road.  Filandia  was  a quaint  old 
place  with  a wonderful  gingerbread  church,  on  a hilltop  that  rolled 
languidly  away  on  all  sides  to  far-off  mountain  ridges.  The  town 
seemed  never  to  have  seen  a foreigner  before.  Perhaps  travelers 
hitherto  had  all  gone  by  way  of  Pereira.  When  I attempted  to  take  a 
picture,  the  entire  population,  men,  women,  and  the  very  babies, 
crowded  so  close  around  me  that  I could  not  fight  them  back  to  a focal 
distance. 

By  the  next  afternoon  we  were  in  quite  a different  country, — down 
in  the  tropics  again,  with  coffee-trees,  bananas,  and  endless  lanes  of 
bamboo,  that  giant  fern,  as  useful  as  it  is  beautiful,  which  nature  so 
unkindly  denied  the  North.  It  was  not  a temperature  for  the  pre- 

64 


Like  those  of  the  days  of  Shakespeare,  the  theater  of  Cartago  consists  of  a stage — of  split 
bamboo,  with  a tile  roof — inside  the  patio  of  the  “hotel.”  The  more  expensive 
seats  are  chairs  in  the  balcony  of  the  second  story;  the  populace 
stands  in  the  barnyard 


Cartago  watching  our  departure.  Two  of  the  doors  show  no  occupants  only  because  these 
had  dodged  inside  to  call  the  rest  of  the  family 


ALONG  THE  CAUCA  VALLEY 


serving  of  undeveloped  films  and  I paused  with  the  tank  beside  the 
first  clear  stream.  The  sun  gave  out  before  I had  more  than  hung  the 
strips  up  to  dry,  drops  of  rain  began  to  fall,  and  night  came  on  apace. 
I pushed  on,  grasping  a wet  film  in  either  hand.  To  my  dismay  the 
road  turned  to  a narrow  path  through  thick  weeds,  thigh-high,  and  for 
a long  five  miles,  with  eighteen  already  in  my  legs  and  thirty  pounds 
straining  from  my  shoulders,  I tramped  swiftly  forward,  striving  to 
hold  the  films  out  of  reach  of  the  weeds.  The  natives,  blacker  and 
blacker  as  we  descended,  stared  with  amazement  from  their  little 
bamboo  shelters  along  the  train  to  see  a strange  being  scurry  by,  hold- 
ing high  above  his  head  two  black  strips,  like  Tibetan  prayer-sheets. 
Small  wonder  they  crossed  themselves  in  superstitious  awe. 

The  night  had  grown  completely  in  about  me,  when  Hays  hailed  me 
from  an  unseen  doorway.  He  had  already  bespoken  supper  and  en- 
gaged a room  with  a bed  of  split  bamboo  and  a quilted  straw  mat- 
tress. For  me  was  brought  what  a hard-earned  candle  proved  to  be 
a canvas  cot,  made  of  a U.  S.  mail-sack.  In  the  “ dining-room  ” was  a 
lounging  chair  of  the  same  material. 

“Where  did  you  get  it?”  I asked  the  woolly-haired  host. 

“ What,  that  fine,  strong  cloth  ? Oh,  the  government  always  has 
plenty  of  that  to  sell,”  he  replied  placidly. 

The  same  damp,  pulsating  jungle  fenced  us  in  all  the  next  morning. 
Far  ahead,  across  the  heat-steaming  spread  of  the  Cauca  valley,  the 
jagged  blue  line  of  the  Western  Cordillera,  that  cuts  it  off  from  the 
Pacific,  stretched  to  north  and  south  as  far  as  the  eye  could  com- 
mand, in  some  places  five  ranges  visible  one  behind  the  other.  At 
noon,  suddenly  topping  a jungled  knoll,  we  caught  sight  of  the  long- 
sought  town  of  Cartago,  reddish  with  the  hue  of  its  roof-tiles  in  the 
center  of  town,  dying  away  in  whitish  and  straw-colored  lines  of  out- 
skirt  hovels.  It  was  hours  later  that  we  reached  the  level  of  the 
valley  floor,  and  strolled  in  heavy  grass  through  a bamboo-built  suburb 
into  the  weedy  central  plaza. 

With  a populous  graveyard  before  the  keel  of  the  “ Mayflower  ” 
was  laid,  Cartago  has  not  yet  advanced  to  what  any  “ mushroom  ” town 
of  our  West  can  boast  at  the  age  of  three  months.  Negroes  were 
everywhere,  though  there  was  no  sharp  “ color-line,”  and  pure  whites 
were  rare.  The  Cauca  is  to  Colombia  what  our  South  is  to  the 
United  States.  In  colonial  times  slaves  were  imported  in  large  num- 
bers up  the  Atrato  river,  and  to  this  day  the  shiftless,  happy-go-lucky 
African  lolls  in  his  ragged  cabins,  speaking  a Spanish  it  was  hard  to 

65 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


believe  was  not  English,  so  exactly  did  their  slovenly,  lazy-tongued 
drawl  resemble  that  of  our  southern  states. 

The  hotel  advertised  “ Comodidad,  prontitud  y esmero  ” — “ Com- 
fort, promptness,  and  speeklessness,” — the  three  things  above  all 
others  a South  American  hotel  is  surest  not  to  have.  There  is  never 
an  office  in  these  hotels  of  the  Andes.  A peanut  vendor  somewhere  up 
the  street  is  manager,  and  all  the  town  “ assists  ” while  the  traveler 
makes  his  bargain,  if,  indeed,  it  does  not  gather  en  masse  to  watch  his 
ablutions.  The  rooms  are  commonly  stark  empty,  and  are  furnished 
to  order,  as  one  selects  a chicken  on  the  hoof  for  the  evening  meal. 
We  had  to  implore  each  and  every  requisite,  from  cots  to  water,  sepa- 
rately and  individually  several  times  over  before  they  were  supplied. 
When  we  insisted  on  two  towels,  the  young  but  toothless  landlady, 
muttering  something  about  the  curious  ways  of  los  gringos,  tore  an 
aged  sheet  in  two,  and  as  long  as  we  remained  made  us  feel  that 
guests  were  an  unmitigated  nuisance.  Among  the  luxuries  of  the 
town  was  wheat  bread.  When  we  demanded  it  with  our  meals,  a six- 
foot  “boy”  of  polished  jet-black  skin  — and  little  other  covering  — 
was  sent  wandering  down  to  market  with  a bushel  basket  on  his  arm, 
and  in  the  course  of  the  afternoon  came  slouching  back  with  three  tiny 
buns  lost  in  the  bottom  of  it. 

But  for  all  the  slovenliness  of  its  habits,  antiquarians  would  have 
found  Cartago’s  hotel  interesting.  The  barnyard  patio  into  which  we 
flung  our  wash-water  formed  the  parquet,  or  stalls,  of  the  village 
theater.  At  the  back  of  it  was  an  open,  tile-roofed  building  of  split 
bamboo  floor  and  sides,  violently  painted,  forming  a stage  quite  similar 
to  that  of  Shakespeare’s  day.  A score  of  bottles  hung  by  the  neck, 
like  corpses  at  some  medieval  wholesale  hanging,  fringed  the  outer  edge 
of  the  platform,  the  ends  or  drippings  of  what  had  been  tallow  candles 
showing  that  they  had  served  as  proscenium  footlights.  The  second- 
story  veranda,  our  dining-room,  was  marked  with  the  numbers  of 
“ boxes  ” around  its  three  sides,  from  the  unspeakable  kitchen  to  the 
even  more  unmentionable  servants’  quarters.  When  plays  were  given, 
the  masses  stood  in  the  yard  below  and  the  well-to-do  looked  on  from 
their  chairs  along  the  veranda.  Unfortunately,  histrionic  talent  seemed 
to  have  completely  died  out  in  Cartago.  Only  the  languid  tinkling  of 
a tiple,  or  native  guitar,  marked  the  long  evenings  in  which  we  watched 
the  golden  moon  rise  over  the  bit  of  mossy,  old-red  roof  and  the  tops 
of  two  lazily  swaying  palm-trees  framed  by  our  balcony  window. 

If  my  knowledge  of  Cartago  is  meager,  it  is  because  I spent  most 

66 


ALONG  THE  CAUCA  VALLEY 


of  my  days  there  in  mailing  a notebook.  The  post-office  was  the  lower 
story  of  a compressed-mud  building  cornering  on  the  plaza.  When  I 
first  made  my  appearance,  its  heavy  wooden  doors,  studded  with  im- 
mense spike-heads,  were  securely  bolted. 

“Is  the  correo  closed  to-day?”  I asked  a lounger-by. 

“ Si,  senor,  the  mails  only  came  in  yesterday.  But  you  can  knock 
and  perhaps.  . . 

Knocking  brought  no  result.  An  hour  or  more  later  I tried  again, 
with  no  better  luck.  Early  the  next  afternoon,  however,  I found  my 
way  in  by  an  inner  door  of  the  patio,  though  the  place  was  still  officially 
closed. 

The  two  rooms  looked  much  like  a garret  of  long  standing,  but  by 
no  means  like  a post-office.  Scattered  everywhere,  over  floor  and 
baked-mud  window  seats,  on  decrepit  chairs  and  crippled  tables,  lay 
fat  mail-bags,  all  stout  and  new,  from  the  chief  countries  of  the  globe. 
The  outgoing  Colombian  correspondence  was  already  packed  in  aged 
grainsacks.  Pieces  of  mail  of  all  sizes  lay  tumbled  and  littered  over 
the  entire  two  rooms.  Fully  half  of  it  was  from  the  United  States, 
particularly  pamphlets  and  packages  from  patent  medicine  houses. 
Four  middle-aged  men,  dressed  in  great  dignity  and  in  Cartago’s  most 
correct  attire,  with  gloves  and  canes  on  chairs  beside  them,  were 
seated  around  a table,  smoking  cigarettes.  I handed  one  of  them  the 
wrapped  notebook.  It  passed  slowly  from  hand  to  hand,  each  feeling 
it  over,  not  so  much  out  of  curiosity,  though  that  was  by  no  means 
lacking,  as  absent-mindedly  striving  to  bring  his  attention  down  to  it. 
Then  all  four  fell  to  perusing  a Postal  Union  rate-sheet,  but  found 
everything  except  the  information  needed.  Finally  one  rose  and  re- 
ferred the  matter  respectfully  to  a man,  evidently  a superior,  seated 
in  state  at  a corner  table.  The  rate  was  found  to  be  one  peso  for  each 
fifty  grams.  The  official  turned  back  and  wandered  for  some  time  at 
random  about  the  two  rooms,  fingering  the  parcel  over  and  over  and 
scratching  his  head  in  a vain  effort  to  recall  what  he  had  set  out  to 
find. 

He  discovered  it  at  last, — an  ancient  postal-scales  — tried  it,  found  it 
too  small,  tried  another,  and  spent  an  ample  five  minutes  juggling  with 
the  odds  and  ends  that  served  as  weights  before  he  computed  the  bal- 
ance. Then  he  drifted  languidly  back  to  his  companions  in  in- 
efficiency, opened  his  mouth  to  speak,  closed  it  again,  and  rambled  once 
more  across  the  room  to  the  scales.  He  had  forgotten  the  weight ! 
This  time  he  took  no  chances,  but  announced  the  figures  aloud  and 

6 7 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


wrote  them  on  the  parcel, — “ 320  grams.”  Those  who  do  not  know  the 
South  American  will  have  difficulty  in  believing  that  the  division 
of  this  by  fifty,  without  troubling  for  fractions,  presented  a real  prob- 
lem. All  four  began  pencilling  long  lines  of  figures  on  as  many  sheets 
of  paper.  Several  minutes  passed  before  one  of  them  ventured  to 
show  his  result.  The  others  compared,  and  amid  a sage  shaking  of 
heads  one  announced  solemnly,  “ SeVen  cents,  senor,”  while  the  rest 
gazed  dreamily  at  me  out  of  the  tops  of  their  eyes,  as  if  wondering 
whether  I should  weather  the  shock  of  so  great  an  expense. 

“And  registered,  seventeen  cents?”  I added;  for  I did  not  care  to 
have  the  parcel  lie  a month  or  two  about  the  earth  floor  of  Cartago’s 
post-office,  or  find  its  final  resting-place  in  the  back  yard.  When  the 
suggestion  had  penetrated,  one  of  the  quartet  sat  down  to  enter  the 
grave  transaction  in  a large  ledger.  I still  needed  a two-cent  stamp. 
The  oldest  of  the  four  shuffled  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  table,  sat 
down,  adjusted  his  legs,  and  slowly  pulled  out  a drawer  stuffed  with 
every  manner  of  rubbish, — tobacco,  rolled  cigarettes,  half-empty 
phials  of  patent  medicine,  everything  that  may  come  by  mail, — and 
finally  dug  up  a battered  pasteboard  box  that  had  once  held  No.  60 
American  thread.  From  this  he  fished  out  a small  sheet  of  two-peso 
stamps,  carefully  tore  one  off  at  the  perforation,  first  on  one  side, 
then  on  the  other,  put  the  sheet  back  in  the  thread-box,  the  thread-box 
back  in  the  drawer,  carefully  closed  the  latter,  and  handed  me  the 
stamp.  I tossed  before  him  a silver  ten-cent  piece.  He  opened  the 
drawer  again,  clawed  out  of  a far  corner  a wad  of  those  ragged,  germ- 
infested  one-cent  bills  indigenous  to  Colombia,  laid  out  eight  of  them, 
counted  them  a second  time,  sat  staring  at  them  a long  minute  while 
his  attention  went  on  furlough,  asked  one  of  his  colleagues  to  count 
them,  which  the  latter  did  twice  at  the  same  vertiginous  speed,  and 
finally  pushed  them  toward  me  with  a hesitative  movement,  as  if  he 
were  sure  he  was  losing  somewhere  in  the  transaction,  but  could  not 
exactly  figure  out  where. 

Meanwhile,  he  of  the  ledger  rose  from  dotting  the  last  “ i ” of  an 
entry  that  stretched  in  nicely  shaded  copybook  letters  entirely  across 
the  double  page,  begged  me  to  do  him  the  honor  to  be  seated,  dipped 
the  clumsy  steel  pen  into  the  dusty  inkwell,  and,  with  a wealth  of 
politenesses,  requested  me  to  sign.  When  I had  done  so,  he  gazed 
long  and  dreamily  at  the  signature,  longer  still  at  space  in  general,  and 
finally  put  the  parcel  carefully  away  in  a drawer  with  neither  stamp 
nor  mark  of  identification  upon  it. 

68 


Along  the  Cauca  Valley  we  met  not  only  peasants  bound  to  town  with  a load  of  wood  and 
carrying  their  prize  roosters,  but  now  and  then  the  corpse  of  a woman  being  brought  in 
for  Christian  burial  service,  after  which  it  would  be  carried  back  and 
buried  in  her  native  hills 


In  places  the  Cauca  Valley  so  swarmed  with  locusts  that  they  rose  like  an  immense  screen 
before  us  as  we  advanced,  struck  us  in  the  face  in  scores,  and  made  a sound  like 
that  of  a distant  waterfall 


ALONG  THE  CAUCA  VALLEY 


“ But,”  I protested,  “ Do  you  give  no  receipt  for  registered  mail?” 

Great  excitement  arose  among  the  officials  and  the  half-dozen  per- 
sons waiting  ostensibly  to  buy  a one-cent  stamp.  A long  conference 
ensued. 

“ It  is,  senor,”  said  the  postmaster  himself,  rising  and  turning  to  me 
with  regal  courtesy,  “ that  no  blank  receipts  have  been  sent  from 
Bogota  yet  this  this  year.  However.  . . 

He  called  aside  the  custodian  of  the  precious  ledger  and  gave  him 
long  whispered  instructions.  The  latter  hunted  up  a sheet  of  foolscap, 
stamped  it  carefully  with  the  office  seal,  and  wrote  out  with  long  legal 
flourishes  — for  penmanship  is  still  an  art  in  Colombia  — a receipt 
for  the  parcel.  This  he  tore  off  and  carried  across  to  the  postmaster 
who,  carefully  preparing  another  pen,  signed  it  with  his  full  name, 
not  forgetting  the  elaborate  rubrica  beneath  it.  Then  he  read  it  care- 
fully over  once  more,  seemed  dissatisfied  with  something,  and  finally 
called  the  attention  of  the  writer  to  the  rough  edge  he  had  left  in 
tearing  off  the  paper,  instructing  him  to  lay  it  under  a ruler  and  trim 
it  with  a sharp  knife.  The  subordinate  did  so  and  at  last  delivered 
to  me  a memento  I still  have  in  my  possession. 

To  one  unacquainted  with  Latin-American  ways  the  episode  may 
seem  overdrawn.  I have  told  it,  however,  without  exaggeration. 
From  the  moment  I handed  over  the  parcel  until  I emerged,  receipt 
in  hand,  there  had  elapsed  one  hour  and  twenty  minutes ! 

Nor  is  such  a scene  unusual.  From  the  Rio  Grande  southward, 
government  offices  are  filled  with  just  such  human  driftwood,  and 
it  is  common  experience  to  see  several  staid  and  pompous  men  in 
frock-coats  spend  more  than  an  hour  doing  what  an  average  American 
boy  would  accomplish  in  two  minutes. 

Swinging  due  south  next  morning  through  the  perpetual  summer 
of  the  flat,  grass-carpeted  Cauca  valley,  we  fell  in  with  a straggling 
band  of  nearly  a hundred  youths.  They  were  conscripts  recruited 
under  the  new  military  law  of  Colombia,  antioquenos  chosen  by  lot 
to  make  up  the  quota  of  the  Province  of  Antioquia,  bound  south 
from  Medellin  for  six  months  compulsory  service.  The  majority 
were  crude-minded  countrymen.  Some,  dressed  in  the  wrecks  of 
“ European  ” suits,  were  undeveloped  boys  of  the  towns,  hobbling 
painfully  along  on  bruised  and  blistered  feet,  bare  except  for  their 
cloth  alpargatas.  Among  the  latter  was  one  Policarpo,  a devil-may- 
care  young  fellow  of  high  intelligence  and  considerable  education, 
who  had  a very  clear  notion  of  the  weak  spots  in  his  native  land, 

69 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


though  no  inkling  of  a workable  remedy.  Another  carried  a tiple, 
as  well  as  a pleasing  baritone  voice,  and  struck  up  at  every  oppor- 
tunity the  languidly  mournful  music  of  the  region. 

The  highway  now  was  a series  of  interwoven  cross-country  paths, 
fording  the  smaller  streams,  crossing  the  larger  on  little  bamboo 
bridges  with  faded  thatched  roofs.  It  was  hot,  yet  not  of  the  op- 
pressive heat  our  most  northern  states  know  in  mid-summer.  All 
along  the  way  were  flowers  of  many  colors,  and  broad  vistas  of 
greenest  grass  stretched  far  across  slightly  rolling  plains  wherever 
woods  and  jungle  did  not  choke  it  out.  Bands  of  butterflies,  often 
of  the  most  gorgeous  hues,  flickered  here  and  there  across  the  face  of 
the  landscape.  Insects  hummed  contentedly  and  lizards  scuttled 
away  through  the  fallen  leaves.  Singing  birds  of  many  kinds 
abounded ; flocks  of  little  parrots,  brilliant  green  in  color,  flitted  in 
and  out  of  the  bamboo  groves,  shrieking  noisily  at  their  games.  Here 
and  there  quinchas,  fences  of  split  bamboo  of  basket-like  weave,  shut 
in  a little  cultivated  patch;  and  all  day  long  the  distance-blue  Western 
Cordillera,  with  its  wrinkled  folds  and  prominences,  stretching  end- 
lessly north  and  south,  seemed  to  cut  off  the  Cauca  like  a world 
apart. 

Then  for  a space  there  were  no  habitations,  except  an  abandoned 
hut  or  two  and  the  ruins  of  several  razed  ones.  The  recruits  mur- 
mured something  about  an  epidemic,  but  none  appeared  to  know  any- 
thing definite  concerning  it.  At  length  we  descended  through  a shal- 
low valley,  and  from  then  on,  locusts  called  chapul  in  the  Cauca,  rose 
in  vast  clouds  as  we  advanced,  covering  the  ground  before  us  and 
veiling  all  the  landscape  as  with  a great  screen,  new  myriads  rising 
at  every  step,  until  they  struck  us  incessantly  in  the  face  and  filled 
our  ears  with  a sound  as  of  some  great  waterfall  at  a distance.  In 
Bogota  we  had  wondered  to  find  an  important  government  depart- 
ment entitled  “ Comision  para  la  Extincion  de  la  Langosta  ” ; now  it 
seemed  small,  indeed,  to  cope  with  the  problem.  At  intervals  cactus 
hedges  bounded  the  way,  and  the  organ-cactus  of  desert  lands 
stretched  forth  its  stiff  arms  into  the  brilliant  sky.  The  Cauca  was 
suffering  one  of  its  periodical  droughts  and  the  accompanying  scourge 
of  locusts,  after  which  it  would  bloom  again  like  a tropical  garden. 

The  recruits  so  monopolized  accommodations  at  the  village  of 
Naranjo  — which  had  not  the  remnant  of  an  orange-tree  to  explain 
its  name  — that  we  had  to  share  a room  with  three  none-too-white 
natives  who  permitted  no  ventilation  whatever.  At  four  they  rose 

70 


ALONG  THE  CAUCA  VALLEY 


to  light  candles  and  feed  their  mules,  and  sat  vociferously  discussing 
nothing  at  all  until  daybreak.  They  spent  more  time  harnessing 
themselves  than  their  animals ; for  the  Colombian  never  dreams  of 
riding  in  anything  less  than  the  complete  outfit  demanded  by  local 
convention.  A wide-brimmed  “ Panama  ” hat — “ sombrero  de  junco,” 
or  the  finer  “ jipijapa,”  he  calls  it  — covers  his  head.  Over  his  usual 
clothing,  which  must  include  coat,  vest,  cravat,  gloves,  and  white 
collar,  no  matter  how  far  he  may  be  from  civilization  nor  what  the 
temperature,  he  wears  a ruana,  a garment  similar  to  the  sarape  of 
Mexico,  or  the  poncho.  In  the  vicinity  of  Bogota  this  is  of  heavy 
wool  and  dark  in  color ; in  the  Cauca  it  is  the  ruana  de  hilo,  of  light- 
colored  cotton,  generally  gay  with  stripes.-  Beneath  this  the  horseman 
wears  zamarras,  ample  false  trouser-legs  held  together  by  strips 
front  and  back,  and  legging-like  at  the  bottom.  Sometimes  these  are 
of  sun-dried  cowhide,  or  goat-skins  shaggy  with  long  white  hair, 
reminiscent  of  the  “ chaps  ” of  our  cowboys.  Far  more  common  are 
those  of  tela  de  caucho,  “ rubber  cloth,”  consisting  of  two  thicknesses 
of  canvas  and  rubber  woven  into  an  impenetrable  yet  flexible  material 
nearly  an  eighth  of  an  inch  thick.  Then  come  his  chilenas,  huge 
wheel-like  spurs ; his  re  jo,  or  lariat  of  twisted  rawhide  hanging  from 
his  wrist ; his  alforjas,  or  leather  saddlebags  between  his  legs ; his 
cuchugos,  a long  soft-leather  pouch  arched  over  the  cantel  of  his 
saddle  like  a cavalryman’s  blanket-roll ; his  long,  shoe-shaped  stirrups ; 
and  usually  a parasol  or  umbrella  hanging  at  his  side,  if,  indeed,  it 
does  not  shade  him  as  he  rides.  No  Colombian  caballero  who  aspires 
to  retain  his  rank  as  such  would  venture  to  mount  a horse  while 
lacking  any  item  of  this  equipment.  One  trembles  to  think  what 
might  happen  to  a caucano,  needing  to  ride  instantly  for  the  doctor, 
who  could  not  lay  hands  on  his  zamarras,  or  who  had  mislaid  his 
gloves. 

The  Cauca  was  now  a broad,  dry,  treeless  region  without  streams, 
though  little  humped  bridges  lifted  us  across  the  waterless  beds  of 
what  would  be  such  at  other  seasons,  and  which  still  retained  the  name 
of  “ river  ” in  local  parlance.  Arrieros  of  this  section  put  red  bands 
about  the  brows  of  their  horses  and  mules,  perhaps  only  for  the  pur- 
pose of  identification,  but  giving  the  animals  the  coy  appearance  of 
coquettish  girls.  As  we  advanced,  the  long  drought  grew  more  and 
more  in  evidence.  Across  the  sun-cracked  valley  floor  lay  scattered 
the  bleached  bones  of  scores  of  cattle  that  had  died  of  thirst.  Poli- 
carpo  and  I,  falling  behind,  were  in  danger  of  suffering  the  same  fate ; 

7i 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


for  the  band  of  recruits,  like  another  locust  horde,  drank  the  world 
ahead  wholly  dry.  The  rare  hovels  and  amateur  shops  along  the  way 
were  prepared  to  feed  and  minister  to  the  thirst  of  only  the  customary 
few  daily  travelers ; not  to  the  ninety-four  of  us  that  suddenly  de- 
scended upon  them  out  of  the  north  without  warning.  Hays  and  I 
were  forced  to  stride  on  past  the  sponge-like  avalanche  of  humanity 
for  self-preservation. 

Here  and  there  we  got  huge  glasses  of  chicha,  the  favorite  native 
beverage,  at  a cent  or  two  each.  So  many  travelers  have  pictured  the 
making  of  this  by  toothless  old  women  chewing  yuca  and  spitting  it 
into  a tub  to  ferment,  that  the  impression  should  be  corrected  at  the 
outset.  That  custom  does  exist,  but  it  is  found  only  among  the  un- 
tamed tribes  of  the  upper  reaches  of  the  Amazon,  scarcely  trodden 
by  one  in  ten  thousand  South  American  travelers.  All  down  the 
great  Andean  chain  this  nectar  of  the  Incas  is  made  chiefly  of  maize, 
though  also  of  other  grains,  berries,  and  of  almost  any  vegetable 
matter  that  will  ferment,  by  just  as  agreeable  processes  as  any  other 
cooking  operation  of  the  same  region.  The  notion  of  cleanliness  is, 
at  best,  rudimentary  among  the  country  people  of  South  America,  yet 
the  brewing  of  chicha  certainly  compares  favorably  with  the  ways 
of  our  average  cider-mill.  A well-made  chicha,  indeed,  resembles 
somewhat  in  taste  the  best  cider,  and  is  the  surest  thirst-quencher  I 
have  yet  encountered,  distinctly  superior  in  this  respect  to  beer. 
Many  were  the  chicha  recipes  I gathered  along  the  Andes.  For  the 
interest  of  those  who  wish  to  temper  a hot  summer  day  with  an  ex- 
cellent heritage  from  the  ancient  Inca  civilization,  let  me  translate 
the  most  common  one. 

“ Chicha  de  morocho  : 

Take  hard,  ripe  corn  ” ( morocho  is  one  of  the  several  excellent 
species  of  maize  that,  like  certain  grades  of  the  potato,  has  never  been 
carried  from  its  original  Andean  habitat  to  the  rest  of  the  world) 
“ shell,  and  boil  for  two  hours.  Let  it  cool,  then  grind,  or  crush 
under  a stone,  sprinkling  from  time  to  time  with  some  of  the  water 
in  which  it  has  been  boiled.  Keep  this  mass  in  a well-covered  jar. 
As  it  is  needed,  mix  with  water;  one  soupspoonful  of  the  prepared 
mass  to  one  liter  of  boiling  water ; add  cloves,  a very  little  vanilla, 
and  as  much  sugar  or  rapadnra  as  is  considered  necessary.  Mix  with 
an  equal  amount  of  cold  water  and  place  in  jars  to  ferment.  Once 
fermented,  it  is  ready  to  serve.” 


7 2 


Worse  than  the  locusts  was  the  flock  of  recruits  that,  until  we  outdistanced  them,  ate 
and  drank  up  everything  the  amateur  shops,  tended  by  leprous  old 
women,  afforded  along  the  way 


The  market-place  of  Tulua,  with  the  cross  that  protects  it  against  all  sorts  of  calamities — 
except  those  which  befall  it 


ALONG  THE  CAUCA  VALLEY 


We  reached  Zarzal,  beyond  a blistered,  red-hot  plain,  soon  after 
noon,  with  nineteen  miles  already  behind  us.  It  was  thus  we  would 
always  have  arrived ; the  day’s  work  done  early  in  the  afternoon,  to 
wash,  eat,  and  loaf  awhile  on  the  canvas  cots  in  our  cell-bare  room ; 
then  to  loll  in  the  rawhide  chairs  on  the  broad  tile-floored  veranda 
before  our  door,  reading  the  literature  of  the  country,  languidly 
watching  the  afternoon  shower,  and  taking  a stroll  in  the  evening  for 
exercise.  In  the  Andes,  however,  the  itinerary  is  subjected  to  a hap- 
hazard arrangement  of  stopping-places  that  make  so  ideal  a plan 
impossible.  We  gave  orders  for  dinner  and  supper  upon  our  arrival. 
The  ignorant,  good-hearted  old  landlord  literally  hung  over  us  as  we 
ate,  fingering  our  dishes  and  even  our  food.  The  place  might,  with 
entire  justice,  have  advertised  “ personal  services.”  At  two  we 
finished  a heavy  dinner.  At  three-thirty  our  host  waddled  in  to 
announce  that  the  “large  supper”  we  had  ordered  was  ready!  We 
managed  to  plead  off  until  five,  but  for  that  concession  were  obliged 
to  eat  the  meal  cold  as  an  abandoned  hope. 

A heavy  rain  during  the  night  — our  coming  seemed  to  have  broken 
the  long  drought  — made  the  going  lead-heavy  for  the  first  few  hours, 
until  the  blazing  sun  had  dried  up  the  “ gumbo  ” mud.  A richer 
region  appeared  as  we  advanced.  Once  or  twice  it  seemed  as  if  the 
central  and  western  ranges  were  about  to  join  hands  and  cut  us  off, 
but  the  “ unmade  ” road  always  found  a way  through  with,  at  most, 
an  occasional  dip,  or  a slight  winding  climb.  During  the  hot  after- 
noon we  picked  up  a recruit  straggler,  complaining  of  fever.  The 
entire  company  was  scattered  for  miles  along  the  valley,  as  often 
panting  in  a patch  of  shade  as  hobbling  forward  on  their  blistered, 
light-shod  feet.  Magnificent  trees  stood  out  here  and  there  across 
the  rich  bottom  lands.  Often  the  way  led  through  dense  gaudales, 
bamboo  groves  that  waved  their  gigantic  plumes  lazily  in  the  summer 
air.  Here  and  there  the  vegetation  vaulted  entirely  over  a “ river  ” 
into  which  filtered  only  a few  rays  of  sun,  as  through  the  roof  of  an 
abandoned  ruin.  Occasionally  we  came  upon  a chacra,  a little  farm 
with  a tiny  thatched  hut  faded  with  age,  its  floor  of  trampled  earth, 
surrounded  by  coffee  bushes,  papaya,  chirimoya,  and  other  fruit  trees 
of  the  tropics,  the  sometimes  recently  white-washed  dwelling  fur- 
nished only  with  a few  crude  leather  stools,  a wooden  bench,  a lame 
table,  and  a few  cantaros  and  dishes  of  native  pottery.  Pigs  and 
chickens  treated  the  family  with  perfect  equality;  under  the  trees 

73 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


meditated  old  donkeys,  broken  down  by  a life-time  of  toil  under  heart- 
less drivers.  We  were  indeed  approaching  the  scene  of  “ Maria  ’’  in 
all  its  photographic  detail. 

We  prepared  to  leave  Tulua  early,  but  we  reckoned  without  our 
host,  who  was  a half-negro  of  nasty  temper  and  stupid  wit,  and  no 
faith  in  gold  coin.  Hays  offered  him  a $5  gold  piece  in  payment 
of  our  bill,  but  he  demanded  “ paper  of  the  country.”  We  had  none 
left,  and  a mulatto  boy  was  sent  out  to  change  the  scorned  yellow 
metal.  An  hour  elapsed  without  a second  sight  of  him.  When  an- 
other had  drifted  into  the  past,  a search  party  was  organized.  In- 
vestigation showed  that  the  emissary  had  tried  to  change  the  coin 
in  a couple  of  shops,  and  had  then  faded  away.  It  was  nearly  noon 
when  he  reappeared,  the  coin  still  in  his  clenched  hand.  He  had 
fallen  into  a game  with  other  boys  and  “ forgotten  ” his  errand. 

We  took  the  task  upon  ourselves.  One  after  another  drowsy, 
wondering  shopkeepers  looked  the  coin  over  as  a great  curiosity  and 
handed  it  back,  announcing  that  the  changing  would  be  “ muy 
trabajoso  ” — “ very  laborious  ” — for  the  speaker,  but  that  we  could 
get  it  changed  “ en  to’as  partes  ” — “ anywhere,”  which,  as  usual,  meant 
nowhere.  At  last  a merchant  suggested  that  it  would  be  changed 
wherever  we  bought  anything.  We  called  his  bluff  by  picking  out  a 
notebook  on  his  shelves,  and  had  heaped  up  before  us  nearly  $500  in 
ragged  “ billetes  del  pais  ” of  chiefly  one  and  five-peso  values.  The 
wad  was  burdensome,  but  to  be  caught  on  the  road  in  the  Andes  with- 
out small  money  is  often  to  go  hungry,  if  not,  indeed,  thirsty.  This 
particular  shopkeeper  prided  himself  on  a knowledge  of  geography 
and  the  affairs  of  the  “ exterior,”  the  outside  world,  above  the  average 
of  his  fellow-townsmen.  As  we  turned  away,  he  called  after  us : 

“ By  the  way,  do  los  senores  come  from  New  York,  or  from  the 
United  States  ? ” 

It  was  a subtle  distinction  we  had  not,  to  that  moment,  recognized. 

The  ancient  city  of  Buga,  one  of  the  largest  in  the  Cauca  valley, 
was  already  familiar  to  us  from  the  pages  of  “ Maria.”  But  seeing 
is  too  often  disillusionment  in  these  “ cities  ” of  the  Andes,  particu- 
larly those  in  which  the  imagination  has  already  dwelt.  To  have 
seen  one  long,  cobbled,  unswept  street  of  Buga  was  to  have  seen  them 
all.  Checkerboard  in  plan,  the  monotonous  line  of  its  continuous 
house-walls,  all  standing  close  to  the  street  in  a strict  “ right  dress,” 
broken  here  and  there  by  a massive  zaguan,  stretched  away  out  of 
sight  in  both  directions.  At  first  glimpse,  it  seemed  unduly  modest 

74 


ALONG  THE  CAUCA  VALLEY 


in  claiming  only  ten  thousand  inhabitants ; when  we  found  that  every 
dwelling  had  a patio  and  a garden  of  its  own  within,  we  realized 
that  a one-story  Andean  town  is  by  no  means  so  large  as  it  looks. 
The  place  was  stagnant  as  a frog-pond,  its  main  plaza  a splendid  study 
in  “ still  life.”  Yet  Buga  was  old  before  Boston  was  founded,  and  is 
favored  with  a soil  and  climate  superior  to  the  best  of  New  Eng- 
land. In  a region  where  fruit  should  have  been  unlimited,  the  only 
shop  that  offered  any  for  sale  was  slightly  stocked  with  a few  green 
samples.  The  old  woman  who  kept  it  bestirred  herself  to  finger 
over  several  of  her  wares,  and  advised  us  to  come  back  manana 
or  the  day  after  when  they  had  had  time  to  ripen.  Perhaps  it  is  un- 
just to  expect  of  Buga  the  energy  and  movement  of  a white  man’s 
town.  At  least  it  has  unrivalled  evenings  in  which,  after  the  sun 
lias  set  gloriously  over  the  western  range,  the  traveler  can  lean  over 
the  parapet  of  the  massive  old  Spanish  bridge  of  many  arches  — how 
the  Spaniards  built  to  stay,  yet  stayed  not  — watching  a half-moon 
rise  and  listening  to  the  chatter  of  the  shallow,  diamond-clear  little 
Guadalajara  de  las  Piedras  that  flanks  the  town  on  the  south. 

Buga  is  a holy  city.  Far  above  all  else  bulks  a modern  Gothic 
church  of  real  bricks  — and  bricks  transported  from  overseas  are 
not  cheap  — called  “ De  los  Milagros,”  filled  with  more  religious 
trophies  than  any  Hindu  temple.  We  were  accosted  in  the  nave  by  a 
long-unshaven  priest  who  inquired  our  desires  with  a brusk  “ Que 
se  le  ofrece?”  that  plainly  revealed  his  knowledge  that  we  were  not  of 
the  “ faithful.”  His  familiarity  with  the  outside  world  was  on  a par 
with  that  of  most  Colombians.  When  we  answered  his  question  of 
nationality  by  announcing  ourselves  Americans,  he  replied  compla- 
cently, “ Ah,  yes,  Englishmen.”  Finding  unheeded  his  strong  hint  to 
leave,  he  at  length  led  the  way  up  a ladder  to  a cell  above  and  back 
of  the  altar.  Here  he  lighted  a candle  and  fell  on  his  knees  before 
the  “ miraculous  ” crucifix,  the  figure  of  which  was  smeared  with  red 
paint  to  simulate  blood.  Pilgrims  flock  to  Buga  from  hundreds  of 
miles  around.  To  the  buguenos  themselves,  however,  their  “ miracle  ” 
seems  to  offer  little  more  than  a means  of  easy  income,  through  the 
hawking  of  crucifixes  and  holy  lithographs  to  their  pious  visitors. 

Like  Puree,  Benares,  or  Lourdes,  the  holy  city  is  more  holy  at  a dis- 
tance, than  to  those  who  loll  through  life  in  its  shadows,  and  it  was 
only  at  El  Cerrito,  a day’s  march  beyond,  that  we  heard  the  story 
of  the  Milagroso  de  Buga  in  all  its  details.  In  a faintly  lighted  corre- 
dor  we  sat  with  three  old  women,  the  natural  authorities  on  such  sub- 

75 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


jects,  who  told  the  tale  in  low,  awed  voices,  their  eyes  glowing  in  the 
night  with  the  miracle  of  it,  their  tongues  breaking  in  frequently  with 
a “Que  le  parece!” — “What  do  you  think  of  that!” — as  the 
miraculous  recital  proceeded. 

Long  years  ago,  more  than  two  centuries,  when  Buga  was  nothing 
but  a row  of  thatched  casitas  on  the  bank  of  the  babbling  Guadalajara 
de  las  Piedras,  a very  poor  and  pious  woman  used  to  come  every  day 
to  wash  clothes  at  the  river  brink.  The  clothes  of  others,  that  is,  for 
you  must  know  that  she  had  long  been  trying  to  get  together  sixty 
cents  to  buy  a crucifix  to  set  up  in  her  hut,  where  she  had  nothing 
whatever  to  pray  to.  At  last  she  economized  the  sixty  cents  and  was 
toiling  away  on  the  bank  of  the  Guadalajara,  dreaming  of  the  joy  of 
setting  up  the  crucifix  in  her  casita  on  the  morrow,  when  a poor  lame 
man  of  Buga  came  by  and  told  her  he  owed  sixty  cents  to  a rich 
caballero,  and  would  be  put  in  prison  for  debt  if  he  did  not  pay  it  that 
very  night.  The  poor  washerwoman  drew  from  within  her  garments 
the  silver  she  had  so  carefully  hidden  away  and  gave  it  to  the  lame 
man  to  pay  his  debt.  The  next  day  — or  three  days  later ; here  a 
great  dispute  arose  among  our  informants  — as  the  poor  woman  was 
washing  and  praying  that  she  might  some  day  gather  together  an- 
other sixty  cents,  there  floated  squarely  into  her  open  hands  and  mixed 
itself  up  with  the  garments  — of  others  — she  was  washing,  a cajita, 
a little  box  in  which  there  was.  . . . 

Only  a simple  little  cross,  the  spokeswoman  said,  but  she,  having  at 
that  moment  to  step  into  the  shop  to  sell  two  corn-and-cheese  biscuits, 
the  others  assured  us  in  hoarse  whispers  that  this  version  was  en- 
tirely erroneous ; it  was  not  a simple  cross,  but  a crucifix  with  a Cristo 
attached,  just  exactly  the  same  that  you  see  to-day  in  El  Milagroso  de 
Buga,  only  very  tiny,  chiquitito,  in  fact.  This  momentous  point  in 
Buga’s  history  I am  forced  to  leave  unsettled,  reporting  merely  what  I 
heard  half-whispered  in  the  dark  corredor  of  El  Cerrito.  The  woman 
took  this  cross  — or  crucifix  — home  and  set  it  up  on  the  wall  of 
her  casita.  To  her  surprise  and  alarm,  the  crucifix  — or  cross  — 
began  to  grow.  “ Que  le  parece ! ” It  grew  even  during  the  night ! 
And  the  noises  of  its  stretching  kept  her  awake.  When  it  had  grown 
to  twice  its  original  size,  she  became  so  alarmed  that  she  went  and  told 
the  village  curate.  The  padre  scoffed  at  her  story,  saying  such  things 
were  not  possible  nowadays  — O ye  of  little  faith ! — for  miracles 
were  no  longer  done.  But  when  she  showed  him  the  thing,  lo,  it  was 
even  then  growing!  So  the  priest  took  it  away  with  him  — as  priests 

76 


A view  of  the  “sacred  city  " of  Buga,  with  the  new  church  erected  in  honor  of  the 
miraculous  Virgin 


A horseman  of  the  Cauca  in  full  regalia.  In  addition  to  his  town  garb,  coat  and  all,  he 
would  be  a social  outcast  who  did  not  wear  a “ Panama  ” hat;  gloves;  a ruatia,  or 
poncho  light  in  color  and  weight;  zamarras , or  false  trouser-legs  of  rubber- 
canvas,  and  chiUnas , or  huge  wheel-like  spurs.  His  other  possessions 
he  carries  in  his  cuchugos,  the  long,  soft -leather  pouch  on  his  cantel; 
and  inserts  his  feet  in  heavy,  fancily  carved 
brass  shoe-stirrups 


ALONG  THE  CAUCA  VALLEY 


will  — and  still  it  grew.  It  grew  until  it  reached  the  size  you  see  it 
to-day  in  El  Milagroso  de  Buga.  Then  the  padre  had  an  intimation 
from  the  Blessed  Virgin  that  a church  should  be  built  on  the  spot 
where  the  cajita  had  been  found,  and  he  called  all  the  people  to- 
gether to  build  it.  They  put  the  miracle  behind  the  altar,  and  there 
it  remained  more  than  two  hundred  years,  in  the  church  which  is 
to-day  the  carpenter-shop  beside  El  Milagroso.  Then,  in  1902,  the 
great  temple  of  bricks  was  raised,  for  it  had  long  been  that  those 
who  would  worship  and  be  cured  by  the  Miraculous  One  could  not 
get  into  the  old  church.  And  the  Milagroso  was  moved  to  the  new 
temple  as  easily  as  if  it  were  a mere  image  of  wood,  though  all  the 
world  well  knows  that  it  moves  only  when  it  wishes,  and  if  it  does 
not,  all  the  horses  in  the  Cauca  cannot  stir  it. 

“And  is  it  true  that  El  Milagroso  has  cured  many  invalids?”  I 
asked. 

All  three  exploded  in  the  Colombian  manner  of  expressing  great 
world-wide  truths,  such  as,  “Is  Buga  larger  than  Tulua?”  “Is  it 
colder  in  Zarzal  than  in  El  Cerrito  ? ” Why.  . . . 

But  from  an  embarrassment  of  proofs  of  the  miraculous  power  of 
the  Milagroso  of  Buga,  I have  space  only  for  this: 

A woman  of  Sonson  had  been  bed-ridden  with  rheumatism  for 
twenty  years.  At  last,  when  they  had  grown  large  enough,  her  sons 
carried  her  to  Buga  and  placed  her  in  a chair  before  El  Milagroso. 
As  she  prayed,  she  leaned  forward  and  touched  the  toe  of  the  Mirac- 
ulous One,  whereupon  she  at  once  rose  up  from  her  chair  perfectly 
well  and  walked  home  to  Sonson,  many  miles  away.  That,  every  one 
in  the  Cauca  valley  knows,  for  it  happened  only  the  other  year. 

“ And  also,’’  put  in  another  of  the  old  women,  bent  on  rounding  out 
the  story,  “ El  Milagroso  can  turn  a woman  young  and  beautiful 
again,  back  to  the  day  of  her  marriage  and  the  age  of  fifteen.” 

“ Eh ! ” began  Hays,  sitting  up,  “ Then  why  . . . But,  no,  the  ques- 
tion would  be  unkind.  It  is  too  personal.” 

It  was  in  El  Cerrito  that  we  first  began  inquiries  about  Jorge 
Isaacs.  Those  who  have  sought  information  of  Carlyle  in  Chelsea,  or 
of  Goethe  in  Frankfurt  will  be  surprised  to  know  that  the  people  of  El 
Cerrito  had  heard  of  the  author  of  “ Maria,”  though  the  corner  chicha- 
seller  and  his  neighbors  spoke  of  him  with  something  of  the  scorn 
active  men  of  the  world  always  feel  for  mere  men  of  letters,  even 
though  they  were  not  averse  to  basking  in  the  sunshine  of  his  fame. 
Some  one  led  us  to  the  little  bridge  below  which  the  village  gossips 

77 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


and  washes  its  scanty  clothes,  and  pointed  away  to  the  east.  Far  across 
the  valley,  on  the  lower  skirts  of  the  central  range,  we  could  see  plainly 
the  “ novela  casa  ” — “ the  story  house,”  a mere  white  speck  on  the 
distant  mountain  flank. 

There  were  few  spots  in  Colombia  to  which  I had  looked  forward 
with  more  interest  than  this  scene  of  South  America’s  greatest  novel, 
and  the  life-long  home  of  its  author.  With  the  first  graying  of  the 
night  I was  astir,  and  we  were  off  by  sunrise  along  a grass-grown  trail 
at  right  angles  to  our  route  to  Ecuador.  Several  times  this  seemed  to 
lose  its  way,  and  split  up  in  hopeless  indecision.  But  the  “ house  of 
my  fathers,”  gleaming  steadily  on  the  skirt-hem  of  the  central  range, 
piloted  us  forward.  The  only  building  to  be  seen,  except  those  on  the 
floor  of  the  plain,  it  stood  just  high  enough  to  gaze  out  across  the 
great  valley,  a single  evergreen  tree,  slender  as  a church-spire,  close 
beside  it.  The  sun  shot  down  its  rays  as  if  bent  on  setting  on  fire  all 
that  the  foliage  of  the  trees  did  not  defend  from  its  rage,  when  we 
came  to  the  edge  of  the  plain,  broken  by  ravines  in  which  we  sepa- 
rated in  an  attempt  to  keep  together.  There  was  nothing  left  but  to 
strike  an  unmarked  course  for  the  goal.  My  own  soon  plunged  down 
into  a gully  hundreds  of  feet  deep,  thick  in  jungle,  a stream,  the  Za- 
baletas  of  “ Maria,”  monologing  at  its  bottom.  I wandered  long  be- 
side it  before  I could  tear  my  way  across,  and  longer  still  before  I 
found  the  suggestion  of  a path  by  which  to  climb  out  again.  Beyond 
were  slightly  sloping  brown  fields,  with  grazing  herds  and  immense 
black  rocks  protruding  from  the  soil,  and  behind,  the  indistinct,  prairie- 
like valley,  majestic  and  silent,  stretched  mile  upon  mile  to  the  deep- 
blue  wall  of  the  Western  Cordillera.  Over  the  crest  of  the  Andes 
above  hung,  like  an  immense  veil,  dense  masses  of  fog,  from  which  the 
winds  of  the  Sierra  above  snatched  rags  of  clouds  that  floated  lazily 
away  to  the  westward.  Then,  all  at  once,  the  modest  little  white  house 
appeared  close  at  hand,  in  a grove  of  evergreens  backed  by  the  yarumo- 
dotted  mountain  flank.  I climbed  a stone  wall  and,  mounting  through 
another  brown  field,  pushed  open  a heavy  rustic  gate,  to  find  myself 
at  last  at  the  home  of  “ Maria.” 

A woman  of  olive  complexion,  with  streaming  hair  — for  in  this 
corner  of  the  Cauca,  far  from  the  “ royal  highway,”  travelers,  to  say 
nothing  of  foreigners,  are  rare,  indeed  — watched  me  in  speechless 
amazement  as,  dripping  with  twelve  miles  of  struggle,  I mounted  the 
steps  of  the  house.  On  the  veranda  I was  met  by  a veritable  delega- 
tion of  women  and  children,  headed  by  a man  who  announced  himself 

78  ' 


ALONG  THE  CAUCA  VALLEY 


as  Camilo  Duran,  hacendado,  entirely  at  my  service.  The  family  was 
of  the  well-to-do  farmer  class  of  the  Cauca,  a bit  awkward,  yet  proud 
of  their  rank  in  society,  lightly  clad  in  rural  dress,  and  decidedly  ex- 
cited at  the  extraordinary  event  of  a visit  by  a foreigner  from  far-off 
Europe  — or  America  — who  presented  a document  from  the  alcalde 
of  Bogota,  signed  by  none  other  than  the  nephew  of  that  same  “ Don 
Jorge”  for  whom  their  home  was  famous.  A wide-eyed  negro  boy 
whom  one  might  have  taken  for  “ Juan  Angel  ” in  person,  his  woolly 
head  protruding  through  the  crown  of  what  had  long  since  been  a na- 
tive straw  hat,  came  running  with  a chair.  As  I sat  down  in  the 
cool  corredor,  surrounded  by  the  admiring  family,  Duran  called  for 
glasses  and  a bottle,  and  just  then  Hays’  head  appeared  above  the  stone 
fence  of  the  inner  corral  and  his  always  leisurely  legs  brought  him  up 
the  steps  to  be  introduced  as  that  very  “ Lay-O-Ice  ” whom  the  valued 
communication  from  Bogota  mentioned  — when  read  by  natives.  The 
aguardiente,  which  was  “ ardent  water  ” indeed,  arrived  a moment 
later,  and  when  Duran  had  drunk  our  health  and  we  his,  we  turned  to 
look  about  us.  Would  we  see  la  novela  casaf  We  would,  indeed,  and 
rising,  entered  it. 

The  “ story  house  ” was  a more  modest  dwelling  than  the  imagina- 
tion pictures  during  the  reading  of  “ Maria.”  But  then,  all  the  Cauca 
and  its  ways  and  people  are  simple  and  unassuming  to  the  American 
point  of  view.  Typical  of  the  hacienda  houses  of  the  region,  it  was 
of  one  story,  arranged  with  due  regard  for  the  natural  resources  and 
the  needs  of  the  place  and  climate.  Built  of  stone  and  adobe,  it  gave 
evidence  of  being  periodically  disguised  under  a coating  of  whitewash. 
The  long,  deep  veranda  was  flanked  by  two  corner  rooms  and,  like 
them,  floored  with  what  the  French  call  dalles,  dull-red  tiles  that  re- 
mained cool  even  at  Cauca  noonday.  Its  thick  walls  were  shaded  by 
a low,  projecting  tile  roof.  Over  the  entrance  — a genuine  Latin- 
American  touch  — had  been  painted  in  what  Hays  referred  to  as  “ box- 
car letters  ” the  information: 

“ Aqui  Canto  y Lloro  “ Here  Sang  and  Wept 

Jorge  Isaacs  ” George  Isaacs*” 

The  main  hall,  or  parlor,  took  up  the  entire  depth  of  the  house  from 
the  front  to  the  back  veranda,  the  “ corredor  de  la  montana  ” of  the 
novel,  and  was  fitted  with  heavy  hand-made  furniture,  of  which  an 
immense  dining  table  of  rough-hewn  construction  formed  the  center. 
Flanking  this  chief  chamber  were  the  half-dozen  private  rooms  of 

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VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


the  family.  That  at  the  right-hand  corner  of  the  house,  encroaching 
on  the  front  corredor,  had  been  the  room  of  “ Efrain,”  the  hero, 
and  of  the  novelist  himself.  Back  of  it  came  the  sewing-room,  the 
writer’s  picture  of  which  was  so  photographic  that  we  were  almost 
startled  not  to  find  “ Maria  ” and  “ Emma  ” and  her  mother  busy  with 
their  sewing.  At  the  back,  across  the  main  hall,  stood  the  oratorio, 
a small  chapel  with  the  same  simple  image  of  the  Virgin,  perhaps,  be- 
fore which  “ Maria  ” had  so  often  prayed  in  vain  for  a happy  life. 
Behind  the  back  veranda  stood  a wing,  barely  connected  with  the  house 
proper,  with  a kitchen,  hive-shaped  clay  bake-ovens,  and  the  staring 
white  eyes  of  negro  servants  of  all  sizes  that  seemed  gargoyle-like 
ornaments  of  the  smoke-streaked  and  blackened  place.  The  entire 
dwelling  was  as  densely  inhabited  as  a New  York  tenement.  Besides 
the  dozen  boys  and  girls  of  olive  tint  and  several  women  of  the 
Duran  family,  servants  and  negroes  swarmed,  and  piccaninnies  peered 
from  every  opening  and  corner. 

The  way  led  through  the  sewing-room  across  the  now  weedy  garden 
to  the  “ pila  de  Maria,”  a crystal-clear  pool  in  the  bed  of  the  arroyo 
that  sprang  from  rock  to  rock  down  the  swift,  light-wooded  gorge  at 
the  foot  of  which  the  “ story  house  ” is  situated.  “ Maria  ” with  her 
unbound  tresses,  was  no  longer  here ; instead,  several  dark-skinned  boys 
snatched  their  garments  as  we  approached  and  sought  quick  shelter. 
The  “ pila  ” was  a rock-walled  basin  of  sandy  bottom,  some  four  feet 
deep  and  as  many  times  larger  than  the  less  romantic  bathtub  of 
civilization,  constantly  renewed  by  the  stream  that  wanders  languidly 
away  across  the  valley  of  the  Cauca.  Because  of  the  dip  of  the 
garden,  the  “ pila  ” is  out  of  sight  from  the  house,  but  from  his  corner 
room  “Efrain”  could,  even  as  the  novelist  has  pictured,  see  the  girls 
as  they  returned  from  their  morning  dip,  pausing  to  pick  a flower  here 
and  there  along  the  way.  Duran  gave  us  leave  to  take  a plunge.  But 
though  few  things  would  have  been  more  welcome  after  our  dripping 
climb  from  El  Cerrito,  it  would  have  seemed  something  verging  on 
sacrilege,  something  like  smoking  a cigar  with  our  feet  on  Juliet’s  bah 
cony,  to  have  profaned  with  our  dusty,  prosaic,  vagabond  forms  the 
pool  abouf  which  seemed  still  to  flit  the  spirit  of  adorable  “ Maria.” 

According  to  the  people  of  the  region,  Colombia’s  chief  novel  is 
little  more  than  the  autobiography  of  its  author,  polished  into  the 
ideal  love-story  in  vogue  a half-century  ago.  Isaacs,  like  the  hero 
“ Efrain,”  was  the  son  of  an  English  Jew,  born  in  Jamaica,  who  came 
to  Colombia  as  a young  man,  married,  and  embraced  Christianity. 

80 


The  scene  of  “ Maria,  ” most  famous  of  South  American  novels,  and  once  the  residence  of  its 
author.  It  lies  some  distance  back  from  the  camino  real  against  the  foothills 
of  the  Central  Cordillera 


The  home  of  **  Maria”;  and  a typical  hacendado  family  of  the  Cauca.  The  lettering  over  the 
door  reads:  ‘‘Here  sang  and  wept  Jorge  Isaacs” 


ALONG  THE  CAUCA  VALLEY 


Like  “ Efrain,”  the  author  had  a sister  Emma,  in  real  life  the  recently- 
deceased  wife  of  a doctor  of  Popayan.  “ Carlos,”  who  first  offered 
his  hand  to  “ Maria,”  still  lived  on  his  hacienda  a few  miles  out 
across  the  valley.  “ Juan  Angel,”  the  slave-boy  of  “ Efrain,”  was 
said  to  be  still  living  in  Cali,  an  old,  old  man.  The  bear  and  tiger 
hunting,  the  country  weddings,  the  simple  and  patriarchal  household, 
the  life  and  scenes  of  the  Cauca,  had  all  been  things  of  reality,  deftly 
lifted  into  the  realms  of  the  imagination  by  the  hero-author.  Even 
the  evil  stroke  of  fortune  that  had  befallen  the  family  on  that  dismal 
night  in  the  “ hacienda  of  the  valley  ” was  no  story-book  tale,  but  a 
stern  fact  that  had  left  the  novelist  without  patrimony  and  brought  into 
the  hands  of  strangers  “ the  house  of  my  fathers.” 

We  took  our  leave  in  the  early  afternoon,  drifting  down  through 
sloping  meadows  past  the  great  black  rock  to  which  “ Maria  ” used 
to  climb  to  watch  for  the  return  of  “ Efrain  ” from  the  valley,  which 
here  spreads  out  in  all  its  rich  expanse,  magestic  and  silent,  to  the 
dim  Western  Cordillera.  Hays,  long  lost  in  meditation,  broke  it  at 
last  to  announce  that  he  had  found  the  end  of  his  wanderings ; that 
he  would  return  to  the  Zone  to  earn  a new  “ stake  ” and  come  back  to 
end  his  days  as  the  owner  of  the  “ novela  casa.”  He  was  given  to 
catching  such  enthusiasms  — to  have  them  die  during  the  succeeding 
night.  It  was,  indeed,  the  most  splendid  spot  in  all  the  magnificent 
Cauca  valley,  this  simple  dwelling  set  where  it  could  see  and  be  seen 
from  untold  leagues  away,  from  the  very  crest  of  the  western  range, 
yet  never  standing  forth  boldly  and  conspicuously.  Framed  modestly 
among  its  evergreens,  just  a little  way  up  the  first  easy  slope  of  the 
Andean  range  that  piles  into  the  clouds  behind  it,  it  seemed  as  unas- 
suming and  removed  from  the  hubbub  of  the  modern  world  as  gentle 
“ Maria  ” herself.  All  the  day  through  our  eyes  were  drawn  back  to  it 
at  frequent  intervals,  and  as  long  as  the  light  lasted  it  stood  forth 
plainly  in  this  clear  air,  though  it  shrunk  to  a house  in  miniature,  then 
to  a mere  speck  on  the  skirt-hem  of  the  central  range. 

All  the  hot  afternoon  we  plodded  onward.  Some  miles  after  falling 
in  with  the  camino  real  again,  we  passed  “ La  Manuelita,”  the  “ haci- 
enda of  the  valley  ” where  Isaacs’  father  had  set  up  a sugar  factory 
while  the  son  was  still  a student  in  Bogota,  and  where  took  place,  both 
in  the  novel  and  real  life,  that  pathetic  scene  that  marked  the  ruin 
of  the  family.  To-day  the  estate  is  the  property  of  Russian-Ameri- 
cans,  and  its  products  are  known  throughout  all  Colombia.  Beyond 
the  little  Amaime  river  the  way  led  through  a forest  of  bamboo,  then 

81 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


across  a monotonous  and  dusty  despoblado.  The  great  Cordillera 
Occidental,  now  like  a badly  wrinkled  garment  of  sepia-brown  hue, 
drew  ever  nearer,  as  did  a line  of  bright-green  trees  marking  the 
course  of  the  Cauca  river.  The  central  range  all  but  faded  away  in 
the  east,  leaving  a broad  expanse  of  fertile  country  longing  for  the 
plow.  Further  on,  a broken  bridge  or  two  adorned  a waterless 
stream,  and  an  occasional  ox-cart,  the  first  thing  on  wheels  we  had 
seen  since  crossing  the  Magdalena,  crawled  by  in  the  sand.  The  after- 
curse of  African  slavery  was  everywhere  in  evidence.  In  little  cabins 
thrown  together  from  jungle  rubbish  lounged  swarms  of  ragged 
humanity,  black  or  half-black  in  color.  Yet  somehow  they  seemed  less 
lazy  than  in  our  own  land,  perhaps  because  the  activity  of  their  few 
lighter  neighbors  gave  less  contrast.  Swift  tropical  night  was  spread- 
ing its  cloak  over  all  the  Cauca  when  we  sighted  the  sharp  church-spire 
of  Palmira,  where  we  were  soon  housed  in  the  well-named  “ Hotel 
Oasis.” 

In  midafternoon  of  the  day  following  we  broke  out  suddenly  on  the 
bank  of  the  Cauca  river.  A barca,  or  ferry,  moored  to  wires  that 
sagged  from  shore  to  shore,  set  us  across,  and  with  sunset  we  plodded 
into  Cali.  Our  arrival  was  well  timed.  The  chief  commercial  city  of 
the  Cauca  valley  was  en  fete.  From  end  to  end,  on  the  Sunday 
morrow  of  our  entrance,  the  place  was  crowded  with  happy,  rather 
dusky,  throngs,  and  gay  with  the  chiefly  yellow  flag  of  the  nation  and 
the  bishop’s  banner  and  mitre.  For  on  that  day  the  ancient  church 
of  Cali  became  a cathedral,  and  one  of  her  “ sons  ” a bishop;  dividing 
a territory  ruled  over  for  centuries  by  the  chief  ecclesiastic  of  Popa- 
yan.  The  name  of  the  “ hi j o de  Cali  ” about  to  don  the  purple  blazed 
forth  from  the  facade  of  the  church  in  enormous  electric  letters,  like 
that  of  some  Broadway  star,  and  by  sunset  fully  half  the  visible 
population  was  reeling  drunk  in  honor  of  the  honor  that  had  fallen 
upon  their  native  town. 

“ What  you  don’t  look  for  in  Cali,  you  won’t  find,”  runs  a local  prov- 
erb ; which  is  a Colombian  way  of  saying  that  its  shops  offer  for  sale 
anything  man  may  desire.  In  a small  and  Colombian  sense  this  is  true, 
except  on  those  frequent  occasions  when  the  stock  is  exhausted.  Con- 
nected with  the  Pacific  port  of  Buenaventura  by  seven  hours  mule-back 
and  four  hours  rail  — it  was  hard  to  realize  that  we  were  again  only 
four  days  from  a Zone  police  station  — the  place  is  in  more  or  less 
constant  connection  with  the  outside  world.  But  the  transportation 
facilities  of  the  country  are  so  lax  that  the  merchants  of  Cali  are  ac- 

82 


ALONG  THE  CAUCA  VALLEY 


customed  to  announce  the  receipt  of  a shipment  from  Europe  or 
America  with  a sarcastic  placard : 

“ por  fin  llegaron  ! ” (At  last  they  have  arrived.) 

The  city’s  role  is  chiefly  that  of  distributing  center  for  the  vast 
territory  about  and  behind  it,  and  on  the  heels  of  this  first  announce- 
ment appears  on  the  chief  shop  fronts  the  information,  of  interest  only 
to  arrieros  and  the  owners  of  mule-trains : 

“ hay  carga  para  — There  is  a load  for  ” this  or  that  town  of  the 
interior. 

Life  in  Cali  is  largely  governed  by  placards,  as  if  she  had  but  re- 
cently discovered  the  art  of  printing  and  were  making  the  most  of  it. 
Hardly  an  establishment  but  is  adorned  with  its  set  of  rules.  Among 
those  of  our  hotel  were  two  of  purely  Latin-American  tone: 

“ Correct  dress  is  required  of  anyone  presenting  himself  in  the  salons 
of  this  establishment. 

“ All  political  or  religious  discussion  is  absolutely  prohibited.” 

Among  the  orders  to  the  sepultcro  of  the  local  cemetery  were  sev- 
eral that  reflected  the  customs  of  the  place : 

“ i.  Receive  no  corpse  without  a ticket  from  a priest. 

2.  Keep  three  or  four  graves  ready  dug  for  bodies  that  may  present 
themselves. 

3.  Make  each  adult  grave  il/2  meters  deep  and  one  wide.  Relatives 
may,  upon  request,  have  it  dug  deeper. 

4.  Remove  no  bodies  without  the  permission  of  an  inspector  or  a 
priest.” 

Why  was  man,  whose  enjoyment  surely  would  be  so  much  greater, 
denied  the  power  of  sailing  freely  out  over  the  earth,  as  the  birds  circled 
away  across  the  great  valley  of  the  Cauca,  tinged  to  sepia  in  the 
oblique  rays  of  the  setting  sun?  When  I reached  the  modest  height 
that  stands  so  directly  over  Cali  that  I could  count  every  dull-red  tile 
of  its  roofs,  the  little  river  racing  over  its  rocks  below  was  still  alive 
with  bathers  and  laundresses.  A breeze  from  off  the  mountains  lifted 
the  drooping  leaves  of  the  palm-trees  of  the  city ; beyond,  lay  a view 
of  the  entire  Cauca  valley,  clear  across  to  the  now  hazy  central  chain 
of  the  Andes,  the  dot  that  to  whoever  has  known  “ Maria  ” will  ever 
remain  “ the  house  of  my  fathers  ” plainly  in  sight,  as  were  many  of 
the  scenes  back  to  Cartago  and  on  over  the  range  toward  Bogota  that 
I should  never  again  see,  except  in  imagination.  If  only  this  magnifi- 
cent valley,  climate  and  all,  were  in  our  land!  Or,  no;  it  is  better 

83 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


as  it  is.  For  then  there  would  be  spread  out  here  in  the  sunset  a great 
colorless  stretch  of  plowed  fields,  factories  sooting  the  peerless  Cauca 
heavens  with  their  strident  industry ; there  these  velvety  hillsides  would 
be  covered  with  the  gaudy  villas  of  the  more  “ successful  ” of  an  ac- 
quisitive race ; a great,  ugly  American  city  of  broken  and  distressing 
skyline,  without  a single  dull-red  roof,  would  cover  the  most  feature- 
less, because  the  most  “ practical,”  part  of  the  valley,  utterly  destroy- 
ing the  beauty  of  a landscape  which  nature  is  still  left  to  decorate  in 
her  own  inimitable  fashion. 


84 


CHAPTER  V 


DOWN  THE  ANDES  TO  QUITO 

FROM  Cali  a broad  “ road,”  still  fresh  with  early  morning,  led 
forth  to  the  southeast,  skirting  some  foothills  of  the  Western 
Cordillera.  Really  a meadow,  bounded  by  two  cactus  hedges 
and  interwoven  with  an  intricate  network  of  paths,  like  the  tracks  of 
some  great  railway  terminal,  it  was  excellent  for  tramping.  Birds 
sang  merrily  in  the  branches  of  the  scattered  trees ; a telegraph  wire 
sagged  southward  from  bamboo  pole  to  pole.  Groups  of  ragged 
women,  balancing  easily  on  their  heads  a machete,  a coiled  rope,  and  a 
rolled  straw  mat,  were  already  off  to  gather  Cali’s  daily  firewood. 
Others  we  met  market-bound,  bearing,  likewise  on  their  heads,  loads 
of  a large  leaf  that  serves  as  wrapping  paper  in  the  shops  of  the 
town.  Here  passed  a man  leading  two  pigs  — except  on  those  fre- 
quent occasions  when  the  leadership  was  reversed  — there  a haughty 
horseman,  and  beyond,  mule  after  donkey  laden  with  everything  from 
milk  to  alfalfa.  We  strode  lightly  forward  this  time,  for  the  develop- 
ing-tank  had  been  turned  over  to  a “ drummer  ” from  Chicago,  bound 
to  Ecuador  by  sea. 

Before  long  the  character  of  the  country  began  to  change,  with  a 
promise  of  mountains  to  climb  far  ahead  in  the  hazy  day-after-to- 
morrow. Mud-holes  appeared ; streams  without  bridges,  though  often 
with  stepping-stones  or  the  trunk  of  a bamboo  thrown  across  them, 
grew  frequent,  and  the  sky  took  to  muttering  ominously  far  off  to  the 
eastward.  A strong  young  river,  bright  yellow  in  color  and  flecked 
with  spume,  sped  by  beneath  the  first  roofed  bridge,  with  news  of  last 
night’s  storm  somewhere  up  in  the  Cordillera.  Before  the  day  was 
done  we  had  several  times  to  strip  to  the  waist  to  ford  torrents  that 
had  decorated  themselves  with  leaves  and  flowers  and  the  branches  of 
trees  snatched  along  the  way. 

Next  morning  the  foothills  began  to  crowd  in  upon  the  trail,  now  a 
haphazard  hunted  thing  scurrying  in  and  out  over  lomas  and  knolls 
and  ever  higher  hills,  from  the  tops  of  which  we  several  times  caught 
what  we  fancied  was  the  last  view  of  the  great  Cauca  valley  behind 

85 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


us.  Slowly  the  mountains  themselves  closed  in.  We  waded  a river, 
toiled  up  a long  slope,  and  came  out  far  above  a beautiful  little  vale 
completely  boxed  in  by  perpendicular  hillsides.  Only  two  houses  were 
to  be  seen  on  its  grassy  floor,  spotted  with  scores  of  grazing  cattle. 
Over  it,  several  hundred  feet  above,  hung  a broad  column  of  locusts, 
surely  a mile  long,  moving  slowly  northward  with  a humming  whirr 
that  we  could  plainly  hear  far  beyond,  and  shading  the  country  be- 
neath like  some  enormous  veil.  Beyond,  we  descended  again  to  the 
Cauca  river.  Here  there  was  no  ferry,  or  rather,  it  was  out  of  order. 
Tons  of  merchandise  lay  heaped  along  the  bank,  while  cursing  arrieros 
chased  their  snorting  mules  into  the  stream.  The  negro  who  set  us 
across  in  a long  dugout  collected  five  billctes  each  for  the  service,  but 
this  was  evidently  exorbitant,  for  the  woman  of  his  own  color  who 
went  with  us  paid  only  four  green  plantains  for  herself,  a piccanniny, 
and  her  load. 

Luckily  we  had  a long  draught  of  chicha  fuerte  before  facing  the 
notorious  subida  de  Aguache  on  the  third  day,  for  the  stories  we  had 
long  heard  of  this  fearsome  climb  had  not  been  exaggerated.  High 
above  anything  we  had  seen  since  passing  the  Quindio,  we  came  out 
suddenly  on  a “ platform  ” on  the  edge  of  one  of  those  bottomless 
ravines  that  abound  in  the  Andes,  a mighty  hole  in  the  earth,  blue  with 
the  very  depths  of  it.  Just  across,  at  the  same  height,  hung  in  plain 
sight  the  wavering  trail  we  could  only  reach  by  undoing  all  the  climb- 
ing of  days  past  and  doing  it  all  over  again  in  one  single  task.  Hour 
after  hour  we  descended  a mountainside  so  sheer  that  the  struggle 
against  gravity  was  like  a battle  with  some  hardy  wrestler,  only  to  face 
at  the  bottom  what  seemed  the  full  unbroken  wall  of  the  Andes,  the 
red  trail  zigzagging  into  the  very  sky  above.  All  the  blazing  after- 
noon we  climbed  incessantly,  to  gain  at  evening  a height  equal  to  that 
of  the  morning,  only  a few  miles  further  south.  A task  that  would 
have  seemed  impossible  a month  earlier  struck  us  now  as  amply  re- 
warded by  the  indescribable  panorama  of  mountains  that  spread  away 
from  the  summit  in  every  direction. 

For  once  the  trail  held  for  a time  the  advantage  it  had  gained,  pass- 
ing through  Buenos  Aires  and  Morales,  two-row  towns  of  thick  adobe 
walls.  Though  still  in  the  tropics,  we  were  now  in  the  temperate 
zone.  Oaks  abounded,  and  the  weather  was  like  that  of  our  northern 
states  in  early  autumn.  The  population  was  still  dark  in  color,  but 
negroes  had  faded  away  with  the  open-work  architecture  of  the  Cauca. 
For  the  first  time  since  descending  from  the  plateau  of  Bogota  we  met 

86 


DOWN  THE  ANDES  TO  QUITO 


full-blooded  Indians.  They  were  of  the  Guajiro  tribe,  dull-brown  of 
color,  sturdy,  thick-legged  fellows  in  white  pajama-like  garments  reach- 
ing only  to  the  knees.  All,  male  or  female,  young  or  old,  greeted  us 
in  a sing-song  as  we  passed. 

On  the  last  of  August,  four  days  from  Cali,  we  pushed  more  swiftly 
forward,  for  we  were  nearing  the  famous  old  city  of  Popayan.  A 
forced  march,  dipping  down  through  a mighty  gully  and  panting  up- 
ward through  swirling  dust,  brought  us  at  noon  to  the  dry  and  wind- 
swept hilltop  village  of  Cajibio.  The  population  was  almost  entirely 
Indian,  and  the  dusty  central  square  swarmed  with  the  Saturday 
market.  Guajiros  of  both  sexes  and  all  ages,  flocked  into  town  from 
scores  of  miles  around,  sat  with  their  bits  of  produce  under  woven- 
reed  shelters,  or  in  the  open  glare  of  the  equatorial  sun.  Some  had 
already  exchanged  their  wares  for  the  weekly  chicha  debauch,  and  stag- 
gered about  maudlin  and  red-eyed,  or  lay  tumbled  in  noisome  corners. 
The  village  priest,  the  only  visible  resident  of  European  blood, 
wandered  in  and  out  among  the  hawkers  with  a mochila  on  the  end  of 
a rod  over  one  shoulder.  Gazing  away  across  the  sepia  hills  and  distant 
blue  ranges,  as  if  his  mind  were  utterly  detached  from  this  world,  the 
padre  paused  before  each  hawker,  turned  his  back,  and  punched  him  — 
or,  more  often,  her  — with  the  end  of  the  stick  until  a contribution  to 
the  parochial  larder  had  been  dropped  into  the  sack. 

The  sun  set  amid  corn-fields,  wrapping  itself  in  grayish-purple  clouds 
in  the  crimsoning  west,  and  still  Popayan  was  leagues  away.  We 
plodded  on  into  the  night.  There  is,  however,  a sort  of  reflected  light 
in  these  high  altitudes,  where  the  very  mountains  seem  low  hills,  a 
sense  of  being  on  top  of  the  world,  with  the  sun  just  out  of  sight 
around  the  curve  of  the  earth.  Fires,  evidently  of  Indians  burning  off 
their  chacras,  dotted  the  night  on  several  sides  of  us.  The  road  grew 
broader  and  took  on  that  atrocious  cobbling  which  follows  the  Spaniard 
everywhere,  growing  worse  as  it  approaches  a town.  Now  it  stumbled 
down  to  a river,  across  a long  stone  bridge  of  the  massive  type  of  long 
ago,  and  into  a two-row  village.  For  a time  we  imagined  we  saw  at 
last  the  lights  of  the  famous  city.  It  was  mere  illusion.  Not  only 
did  we  tramp  another  footsore  hour,  but  when  we  did  finally  arrive, 
there  were  no  lights.  The  place  had  grown  up  about  us  in  the  dark  be- 
fore we  realized  that  we  were  no  longer  in  the  open  country.  The 
pedometer  registered  35  miles,  and  our  feet  and  appetites  several  times 
that,  when  we  halted  undecided  in  what  some  sixth  sense  told  us  was 
the  central  plaza. 


87 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


Most  famous  of  all  the  cities  from  Bogota  to  Quito,  boasting  itself 
a “ cradle  of  savants,”  long  the  capital  of  a large  section  of  Spain’s 
American  colonies  and  still  that  of  the  great  department  of  the  Cauca, 
Popayan  had  seemed  to  promise  at  least  the  lesser  comforts  of  civiliza- 
tion. For  days  we  had  slept  on  tables  and  mud  benches,  wrapped  in  the 
fond  hope  of  making  up  here  for  the  cold,  hungry  nights  on  the  trail. 
We  had  even  feared  there  might  be  difficulty  in  choosing  from  a 
plethora  of  accommodations,  and  had  gravely  set  down,  somewhere  to 
the  north,  the  name  of  the  “ Hotel  Colon  ” as  of  about  the  grade  of 
luxury  fitted  to  our  fortunes.  It  was  to  laugh.  Though  it  was  barely 
eight  in  the  evening,  Popayan  was  as  dead  as  a graveyard  at  midnight 

— and  darker.  Later  we  learned  that  the  famous  city  does  have  lights, 

— a few  street-corner  kerosene  lamps  that  burn  out  within  an  hour, 
unless  a puff  of  wind  blows  them  out  first.  Having  been  a city,  in 
the  Spanish  sense,  only  376  years,  it  was  too  much  to  expect  the  place 
to  have  learned  already  of  the  existence  of  electricity. 

We  hobbled  over  slippery  cobblestones  along  monotonous  two-story 
streets  and  in  and  out  of  dimly-seen  thatched  suburbs  for  what  seemed 
hours  before  we  caught  a man  emerging  from  a candle-lighted  barber- 
shop. 

“ Hotel?  ” he  ruminated,  as  if  striving  to  recall  a word  he  had  heard 
somewhere  long  ago,  “You  want  a hotel?” 

“ No,  you  Spiggoty  dolt,”  growled  Hays  in  English,  nursing  his 
blistered  feet  by  standing  on  one  at  a time,  “ We  only  asked  that  be- 
cause we  wanted  to  know  who  won  the  pennant  this  year.” 

“ Hotel,”  went  on  the  musing  popayanejo,  unheeding,  “ Ah-er-where 
do  you  come  from  and  where  are  you  going?  You  will  be  italianos? 
Alemanes  ? ” 

“ No,  we  ’re  Chinamen,”  I snapped,  “ and  looking  for  a hotel.” 

“ Pues,  Senor  Chino,”  he  replied,  cleverly  returning  the  sarcasm, 
“ There  is  no  hotel  in  Popayan.  But  if  you  go  down  this  street  four 
cuadras  in  this  direction  and  three  in  that  and  knock  at  the  door  of  the 
second  house  beyond  the  fountain,  you  may  find  them  willing  to  give 
you  lodging.” 

They  were  not,  however ; nor  were  those  to  whom  they  in  turn  di- 
rected us.  A long  hour  more  we  winced  along  the  uneven,  slippery 
streets  of  Popayan,  begging  for  a bite  to  eat  and  a plank  to  lie  on  as  in 
any  Indian  village,  only  to  be  turned  away  from  some  of  the  most  dis- 
tressing holes  ever  man  offered  to  sleep  in  on  a wager.  But  the 
Spanish-speaking  races  have  a proverb  that  “ Perro  que  anda  hueso 

88 


DOWN  THE  ANDES  TO  QUITO 


encuentra,”  and  we  stumbled  finally  upon  a billiard-room  in  which  sev- 
eral young  bloods  of  the  town  were  upholding  their  reputation  as  night- 
hawks.  One  Senor  Fulano,  cigarette-maker  by  profession  — when  he 
was  sober  enough  — and  “ dope-fiend  ” by  habit,  as  were  several  of  his 
companions,  took  us  in  charge  and  led  the  way  uncertainly  to  a cubby- 
hole of  a room  in  his  barn-like  ancestral  home.  There,  my  dreams  of 
the  comforts  of  Popayan  forever  shattered,  I resigned  myself  to  sleep 
once  more  on  a wooden  table  posing  as  a bed.  Hays  was  little  more 
fortunate,  for  though  he  drew  an  aged  divan,  he  fell  asleep  quite  liter- 
ally several  times  before  he  abandoned  himself  to  the  floor  which  fate 
seemed  bent  on  forcing  him  to  occupy. 

In  the  morning  Fulano’s  garrulous  old  mother  made  more  formal 
arrangements  for  our  housing.  She  did  not  pretend  to  run  a hotel  — 
though  she  had  no  hesitancy  in  charging  hotel  rates  — but  she  served 
two  greasy  meals  a day  to  several  clerks  from  the  government  offices 
and,  “ out  of  charity,”  seated  us  with  them.  But  alas,  however  easily 
he  may  spend  the  day,  the  Latin-£.merican  leads  a hard  life  at  night. 
In  a huge  and  all  but  empty  front  room  was  an  enormous  bedstead  of 
viceregal  days ; but  this,  too,  was  wooden  floored,  and  the  diaphanous 
straw-mat  that  did  duty  as  mattress  had  had  all  life  crushed  out  of  it 
years  before.  Nor  did  the  single  blanket  have  much  influence  over 
the  penetrating  mountain  air  of  early  morning.  The  deep  window  em- 
brasures were  built  with  steps  for  the  use  of  occupants  who  would  en- 
gage in  the  favorite  popayanejo  pastime  of  gazing  out  through  the 
reja;  but  no  provision  whatever  had  been  made  for  another  con- 
venience essential  to  all  well-regulated  households.  In  this  respect  the 
house  was  on  a par  with  all  the  rest  of  the  famous  city. 

“ Founded  ” by  Benalcazar,  in  the  Spanish  sense  of  having  a scribe 
record  under  a name  bristling  with  reference  to  the  saints  — which  as 
usual  failed  to  stick  — an  Indian  town  ruled  over  by  a warlike  cacique 
named  Payan,  the  capital  of  the  Cauca  has,  according  to  its  latest  cen- 
sus, 4326  men  and  5890  women,  a disproportion  that  is  reflected  in  its 
customs.  If  its  own  assertion  is  to  be  taken  at  par,  it  is  “ notable  for  its 
fine  climate  and  its  illustrious  sons.”  Of  the  climate  there  can  be  little 
criticism.  Just  how  illustrious  its  sons  might  have  been  in  a wider 
world  no  one  who  has  come  to  see  where  and  how  they  lived  can  be 
blamed  for  wondering.  Of  them  all,  the  town  is  evidently  most  proud 
of  Caldas  — a statue  of  whom  adorns  the  central  plaza  — the  tobacco- 
chewing  savant  who  discovered  how  to  determine  altitude  by  boiling 
water  — no  one  who  has  cooked  his  eggs  in  the  Andes  is  long  in  mak- 

89 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


ing  the  same  discovery  — and  who  taught  the  revolted  colonials  how  to 
make  gunpowder  — only  to  be  shot  in  Bogota  for  his  pains. 

So  aged  is  the  town  that  it  ha^  not  a red  roof  left;  all  are  faded  to 
a time-dulled  maroon.  The  place  bristles  with  ancient  religious  edi- 
fices, mementoes  of  its  importance  in  colonial  days.  Hardly  a block 
is  there  without  its  huge  church  of  cavernous  and  dilapidated  interior. 
The  silent  grass-grown  little  “ Universidad  del  Cauca,”  of  the  aspect 
of  some  bent  and  toothless  old  man,  is  famous  now  only  for  its  age, 
though  in  its  dotage  it  fondly  fancies  itself  still  one  of  the  principal 
seats  of  learning  in  the  New  World.  Over  its  unadorned  main  door 
may  still  be  read  a crumbled  inscription : 

“ Initium  Sapientae 
Timor  Domini  ” 

Summer  vacation  had  left  it  uninhabited,  but  there  was  evidence  of 
practical  training  in  at  least  one  respect, — the  beds  of  its  dormitory 
were  narrow  wooden  boxes  some  five  feet  long. 

If  Popayan  is  dead  by  night,  little  more  can  be  said  for  it  by  day. 
Languid  shopkeeping  is  almost  its  only  visible  industry,  and  the 
population  seems  to  live  on  what  they  sell  one  another.  The  ways  of 
its  merchants  are  typical  of  those  in  all  the  somnolent  towns  of  the 
Andes.  With  few  exceptions  they  treat  the  prospective  purchaser  in 
a manner  that  seems  to  say,  “ Buy  at  this  price,  or  go  away  and  let  me 
alone.  I want  to  read  last  week’s  newspaper,  finish  my  cigarette,  and 
day-dream,  and  I don’t  want  you  here  in  my  store  disturbing  my  medi- 
tations.” Too  often,  in  the  shops,  the  manana  habit  prevails, — in  that 
it  is  always  the  next  place  that  has  what  you  are  looking  for.  The 
mortality  of  white  ones  being  high  on  Andean  trails,  I entered  a tienda 
to  ask: 

“ Do  you  sell  blue  handkerchiefs,  senor?  ” 

Shopkeeper,  recovering  from  what  was  really  a sleep,  though  osten- 
sibly awake  : “ Ah  — er  — buenos  dias,  senor.  Como  esta  uste  ’ ? 
Como  esta  la  familia  ? The  senor  wishes  — er  — ah  — what  was  it 
the  senor  requested  ? ” 

The  chances  always  are  that  he  has  heard  the  question  in  his  dreams 
and,  if  given  time,  will  recall  it: 

“ Handkerchiefs,  is  it  not,  senor?  ” 

“ Blue  handkerchiefs,  please.” 

“Ah  — er  — como  para  que  cosa?  (What  for,  for  instance?) 

This  question,  which  is  seldom  lacking,  being  ignored,  the  shop- 

90 


DOWN  THE  ANDES  TO  QUITO 


keeper  turned  to  let  his  eyes  wander  dreamily  over  his  shelves,  striving 
in  vain  to  bring  his  attention  down  to  the  matter  in  hand.  Finally  he 
took  a stick  from  a corner  and  fished  from  an  upper  shelf  a paper- 
wrapped  bundle.  Opened,  it  disclosed  a half-dozen  pairs  of  faded  red 
socks,  made  in  Germany. 

“ But  I said.  . . .” 

Shopkeeper,  suddenly,  but  not  unexpectedly,  without  a pause  be- 
tween the  questions : “ Where  do  you  come  from  where  are  you  go- 

ing?” 

The  traveler  answers  according  to  his  character  and  mood.  Mean- 
while the  merchant  had  fished  down  a bundle  of  red  handkerchiefs. 

“ I said  blue,  senor.” 

“But  this  is  blue,  a beautiful  ultramarine  blue,  mira  uste  ’ — just 
look,”  and  he  held  it  up  to  the  reflected  sunlight  that  streamed  in  at  the 
only  opening  to  the  shop, — the  doorway. 

“ No,  senor,  I want  blue.” 

Shopkeeper,  dreamily,  “ Ah,  senor,  no  hay  — there  are  none.  But 
you  can  find  them  en  to  ’as  partes  — anywhere.  You  are  French, 
perhaps,  senor?” 

“ Perhaps.”  Here  I caught  sight  of  a bundle  of  blue  handkerchiefs 
in  plain  view  on  a lower  shelf,  and  pointed  them  out.  “ How  much  ? ” 

Shopkeeper:  ‘ ‘Te — Fifteen  pesos,  senor.” 

“ You  must  take  me  for  a tourist,  or  a gringo.  I ’ll  give  you  five.” 

“ Very  well,  senor,  muchas  gracias,  buenos  dias,  adios  pues.” 

Or  perhaps  the  stranger  wishes  to  visit  some  local  celebrity  and 
pauses  in  a shop-door  to  ask: 

“ Can  you  tell  me  where  Dr.  Medrano  lives  ? ” 

“ You  mean  Dr.  Medrano  de  Pisco  y Miel?  ” — That  is  the  only  Dr. 
Medrano  in  town,  as  the  merchant  well  knows,  but  the  matter  must 
be  clothed  in  all  customary  formality  — “ His  house  is  the  second 

door  beyond  that  of  Dr.  Enrique  Castro  y Pelayo,  senor.” 

“ Yes,  but  I am  a stranger  in  town  and  I don’t  know  where  Don 
Enrique  lives.” 

“You  don’t  know?  You  don’t  know  where  Dr.  Enrique  Castro  y 
Pelayo  lives ! Why  — er  — but  everyone  knows  the  house  of  Dr. 
Enrique.  Why  — er  — just  ask  anywhere.  They  can  tell  you  en  to’ as 
partes  — : anyone  can  tell  you.” 

This  happy-go-lucky  way  of  life  is  not  without  its  advantages.  Hav- 
ing occasion  to  cash  a traveler’s  check,  I dropped  in  upon  a native  mer- 
chant who  played  at  being  a banker.  After  the  usual  extended  form- 

91 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 

alities,  he  took  the  check  and  looked  it  over  with  a puzzled  expression, 
for  he  knew  no  English. 

“ As  a banker  you  are,  of  course,  familiar  with  the  system  of  travel- 
er’s checks  ? ” I put  in. 

“ No,  senor,  I have  never  before  seen  one.” 

“Well,  it  is  just  as  good  as  money  and.  . . 

“ Oh,  of  course,”  he  replied,  hastily,  “ since  the  senor  offers  it. 
How  much  do  you  want  for  it?” 

“ Only  its  face  value ; ten  dollars  in  American  money.” 

“ I shall  be  pleased  to  take  it.  How  much  is  that  in  our  money  of 
the  country  ? ” 

“ Only  a thousand  pesos,  senor,”  I replied,  disdaining  the  tempta- 
tion to  multiply  by  ten. 

“ Muy  bien,  senor,”  he  replied,  and  making  out  an  order  to  his  cashier 
for  that  amount,  tucked  the  check  away  in  a drawer. 

“ It  is  not  good  unless  I sign  it,”  I suggested. 

“Ah,  no?”  he  asked,  producing  it  again  for  that  purpose,  “ A thou- 
sand thanks.  Pues,  adios,  senor.  Until  we  meet  again.” 

So  unlimited  is  the  faith  in  “ ingleses  ” in  these  regions  that  he  had 
no  hesitancy  in  accepting  from  a stranger  a check  which  he  would  not 
have  dreamed  of  cashing  for  one  of  his  fellow  townsmen  without  ample 
proof  of  its  value. 

One  evening  three  men  in  frock-coats  and  the  manners  of  prime 
ministers  dropped  in  upon  us  and  announced  themselves  editors  of  the 
newspaper  “ Sursum.”  They  had  only  an  hour  or  two  to  spare,  how- 
ever, and  by  the  time  the  introductory  formalities  were  over  they  bowed 
themselves  out  with  the  information  that  they  would  come  and  tertu- 
liar  (interview)  us  — manana.  Two  days  later  I chanced  to  meet  one 
of  them  again. 

“ Did  you  say  ‘ Sursum  ’ is  published  every  week?  ” I asked,  having 
had  no  visual  evidence  of  its  existence  since  our  arrival. 

“ Oh,  yes,  indeed ! ” cried  the  editor,  rolling  another  cigarette, 
“ Every  week.  Ah  — that  is,  last  week  it  did  not  appear,  it  is  true ; 
and  the  week  before  the  editor-in-chief  was  al  campo,  and  the  week  be- 
fore that  he  was  very  busy,  as  his  sister  was  getting  married.  But  it  is 
sure  to  come  out  next  week,  or  if  not,  then  the  week  after.  And  I am 
myself  coming  to  interview  you  — manana.” 

It  was  in  Popayan  that  we  found  coca  leaves  for  sale  for  the  first 
time,  and  met  Indians  whose  cheeks  were  disfigured  by  a cud  of  them. 
Long  before  the  white  man  appeared  on  his  shores,  the  Indian  of  the 

92 


DOWN  THE  ANDES  TO  QUITO 


Andes,  unacquainted  with  the  tobacco  of  his  North  American  brother, 
was  addicted  to  this  habit.  The  leaves  — from  which  is  extracted  the 
cocaine  of  modern  days  — are  plucked  from  a shrub  not  unlike  the 
orange  in  appearance,  that  grows  down  in  the  edge  of  the  hot  lands  to 
the  east  of  the  Andean  chain.  Once  dried,  they  are  packed  in  huge 
bales,  or  crude  baskets  made  on  the  spot,  and  sold  in  the  marketplaces 
by  old  women  who  weigh  out  the  desired  amount  in  clumsy  home-made 
scales,  or  in  handfuls  by  eye  measure.  The  Indians  thrust  the  leaves 
one  by  one  into  their  mouths,  and  as  they  become  moistened,  add  a bit 
of  lime  or  ashes,  dipped  with  what  looks  like  an  enlarged  toothpick  from 
a tiny  calabash  which,  with  a leather  pouch  for  the  leaves  themselves, 
constitutes  the  most  indispensable  article  of  the  aboriginal  equipment. 
How  harmful  the  habit  may  be,  it  is  hard  to  gage.  Its  devotees  are,  it 
is  true,  languid  of  manner  and  slow  of  intellect ; but  they  show  no  great 
contrast  in  this  particular  from  the  “ gente  decente,”  their  neighbors, 
who  rarely  indulge  in  the  leaves,  except  on  some  long  and  wearisome 
journey.  So  marked  is  this  languor  in  Popayan  that,  as  in  most 
Andean  towns,  brawls  are  rare,  despite  the  half-anarchy  that  reigns. 
Youths  merry  with  liquor  or  its  equivalent  raced  their  horses  up  and 
down  the  roughly  cobbled  streets,  forcing  them  to  capriole  until  Hays 
took  to  cursing  his  loss  of  police  powers ; street  women  may, — though 
few  find  it  necessary  — ply  their  profession  as  openly  as  vegetable 
hawkers.  Even  when  a dispute  grows  noisy,  there  is  no  interference. 
A policeman  may  wander  up  in  curiosity,  like  any  other  bystander,  but 
he  is  almost  sure  to  find  that  the  contender  is  some  “ authority,”  or  the 
second  cousin  of  the  alcalde,  or  a grandson  of  the  bishop,  or  wears  a 
white  collar,  and  wanders  away  again,  lest  he  get  himself  into  trouble. 

So  we  remained  in  Popayan  until  it  had  dwindled  from  the  romantic 
city  of  the  past  our  imaginations  had  pictured  to  the  miserable  reality 
— though  in  after  years,  veiled  by  the  haze  of  memory,  its  charm  and 
romance  may  return  — and  one  evening  asked  to  have  our  coffee  served 
at  a reasonable  hour  in  the  morning. 

“ Siempre  se  van  hoy  ? ” cried  our  hostess,  when  we  appeared  in 
road  garb  next  morning,  “ You  are  really  going  to-day?  ” It  was  not 
so  much  that  she  was  striving  to  cover  her  failure  to  have  the  coffee 
ready;  her  Latin-American  mind  could  not  conceive  of  so  definite  a 
resolution  outliving  the  night.  “ Why  do  you  not  remain  until  to- 
morrow and  rest?”  she  rambled  on. 

An  hour  later  she  stood  staring  after  us  from  her  doorway,  an  act 
in  no  way  conspicuous,  since  all  that  section  of  Popayan  was  similarly 

93 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


engaged.  The  entire  town  had  expressed  its  sympathy  that  we  must  go 
“ all  alone  and  so  laboriously  — tan  trabajoso  ” over  the  wild  moun- 
tains and  valleys  to  — well,  wherever  we  were  bound ; for  not  a single 
popayanejo  took  seriously  our  assertion  that  we  really  hoped  to  reach 
Ecuador. 

Pasto  was  said  to  be  something  like  a week  distant  “ by  land,”  and 
the  route  “ very  dangerous,”  though  from  what  source  was  not  clear. 
For  the  first  lazy  hour  a good  road  led  gradually  upward.  But  like  an 
incorrigible  small  boy  getting  out  of  sight  of  home,  its  good  behavior 
ceased  at  the  hilltop  where  we  caught  the  last  view  of  the  “ cradle  of 
savants.”  Ever  more  winding  and  broken,  across  ravines  and  streams 
with  bridges  and  without  them,  now  and  then  seeming  to  drop  com- 
pletely out  of  the  world  about  us,  only  to  gather  its  forces  again  far 
below  and  scramble  to  even  greater  heights  over  a saddle  of  a moun- 
tain wall  beyond,  from  the  summit  of  which  the  trail  of  twenty-four 
hours  before  stood  forth  as  clearly  as  across  an  alleyway  between 
tenement  houses,  it  struggled  uncertainly  southward  day  after  day. 
At  the  hamlet  of  Dolores,  amid  rugged  and  tumbled  mountains  piled 
into  the  sky  on  every  hand,  we  came  to  a parting  of  the  ways  and  had 
the  choice  of  continuing  by  the  temperate  or  the  torrid  zone.  One 
route  went  down  into  the  Patia  valley,  hotter  than  Panama,  reputed  the 
abode  of  raging  fevers  and  the  breeding-place  of  those  swarms  of 
locusts  that  devastate  the  Cauca.  The  other,  by  way  of  “ los  pueblos,” 
lay  cool  and  high,  with  frequent  towns,  though  it  was  two  days  longer 
and  much  more  broken  and  mountainous. 

We  chose  the  temperate  zone.  The  way  turned  back  for  a time  al- 
most the  way  we  had  come,  then  climbed  until  a whole  new  world 
opened  out  beyond,  towering  peaks  piercing  the  clouds  and  strangely 
shaped  masses  of  earth  lying  heaped  up  tumultuously  on  every  hand. 
For  once  the  trail  showed  unusual  intelligence  in  clinging  to  the  top 
of  the  ridge,  fighting  its  own  natural  tendency  to  pitch  down  into  the 
mighty  valleys  on  either  side,  and  the  constant  struggle  of  the  ridge 
to  throw  it  off,  like  an  ill-tempered  bronco  its  rider.  We  were  follow- 
ing now  what  the  Colombian  calls  a cuchillo,  a “ knife,”  treading  the 
very  edge  of  its  blade.  Along  it,  miserable  mud  huts  were  numerous ; 
and  every  Indian  we  met  had  a cheek  distorted  and  his  teeth  and 
lips  discolored  by  a coca  cud.  It  struck  us  as  strange  that  even  bad 
habits  have  their  local  habitat  and  that  the  magnificent  mountain 
scenery  gave  the  dwellers  no  inspiration  to  better  their  conditions. 

Evidently  the  region  held  foreigners  in  great  fear.  As  often  as  we 

94 


DOWN  THE  ANDES  TO  QUITO 


paused  to  ask  for  lodging,  some  transparent  excuse  was  trumped  up  to 
get  rid  of  us.  The  naivete  of  the  inhabitants  was  amusing.  At  one 
village  hut  two  women  met  our  plea  for  posada  with : 

“No,  sehores,  los  maridos  no  estan  ” (the  husbands  are  out). 

“ We  are  not  interested  in  the  husbands,  but  in  a place  to  sleep.” 

“ Yes,  but  the  husbands  will  be  out  all  night  and  they  would  make 
themselves  very  ugly”  (se  pondrian  muy  bravos).  Further  on  my 
companion  tried  his  luck  again.  Two  plump  girls,  not  unattractive  in 
appearance,  bade  him  enter.  Could  they  give  us  posada?  They 
thought  so;  mother  usually  did,  but  she  was  out  just  then. 

“ All  right,”  said  Hays,  sitting  down,  “ I ’ll  wait  for  her.” 

Some  time  had  passed  when  it  occurred  to  him  to  ask : 

“ When  will  mother  be  back?  ” 

“ Oh,  perhaps  in  a week,”  answered  the  innocent  damsels,  “ She  went 
to  Moj arras  with  a load  of  corn.” 

It  was  as  useless  to  try  to  get  a meal  without  the  loss  of  several 
hours  as  to  hope  to  eat  it  without  the  entire  village  squatted  around 
us.  Either  there  was  nothing  to  cook,  or  no  pan  to  cook  it  in,  until  the 
woman  next  door  had  baked  to-morrow’s  corn-bread,  or  the  stick  fire 
in  the  back-yard  refused  to  burn,  or  some  other  unsurmountable  draw- 
back developed.  Hays  constantly  labored  under  the  delusion  that 
money  could  expedite  matters,  and  was  given  to  drawing  forth  his 
worldly  wealth  in  one  wad  to  flourish  it  before  the  languorous  cook  and, 
incidentally,  all  the  gaping  town.  The  result  was  often  a doubled  or 
trebled  price,  if  not  an  inducement  for  some  of  the  village  louts  to 
lay  in  ambush  for  us  somewhere  up  the  trail,  but  never  an  earlier 
meal.  If  they  could  stir  up  their  lethargy  to  serve  us  at  all,  it  would 
be  only  at  their  own  good  leisure,  whatever  the  price.  Many  a time 
there  occurred  a scene  similar  to  that  at  San  Miguel.  Hays  shook  a 
$50  billete  in  the  face  of  a bedraggled  Indian  woman  who  had,  perhaps, 
never  before  seen  so  large  a sum  at  one  time,  offering  it  all  if  she 
would  prepare  a meal  at  once.  She  would  not,  but  after  long  argu- 
ment served  coffee,  corn-cakes,  and  eggs  — which  might  easily  rank 
as  a meal  in  the  Andes — -and  collected  a bill  of  seven  cents. 

For  days  at  a time  we  tramped  “ aguas  arriba.”  The  trails  of  the 
Andes  are  fond  of  this  means  of  crossing  a mountain  range.  High 
above  it  we  caught  the  gorge  of  a river,  and  wound  upstream  in  and 
out  along  the  towering  wall  that  shut  us  in.  It  was  no  mountain-flank- 
ing road  of  easy  gradient,  such  as  abound  in  the  Alps,  but  one  that  had 
chiefly  built  itself ; so  that  all  day  long  we  climbed  and  descended  stony 

95 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


buttresses  of  the  range,  until  they  grew  like  the  constant  nagging  of  a 
querulous  old  woman,  the  gorge  of  the  brawling  river  ever  far  below. 
Here  and  there  a hut  and  clearing  hung  on  the  opposite  mountain  wall, 
or  above  us,  in  places  where  plows  were  useless.  The  Indians  culti- 
vated their  “ farms  ” by  burning  off  a bit  of  the  swift  slope,  threw  a 
brush  fence  about  it,  dropped  their  seeds  into  carelessly  dug  holes,  and 
sat  back  to  wait  for  whatever  nature  chose  to  send  them.  At  length, 
in  the  course  of  days,  the  trail  having  kept  the  same  general  level,  the 
diminished  river  rose  to  meet  it;  for  hours  more  the  path  jumped  back 
and  forth  across  the  ever  smaller  stream,  until  this  had  dwindled  to  a 
mere  brook  racing  down  a rocky  gorge  from  its  birth-place  up  under 
the  snows.  Then,  when  there  was  nothing  else  left  for  it,  the  trail 
girded  up  its  loins  and  scrambled  alone  up  out  of  the  valley  and  over 
the  backing  range. 

Far  above  I could  make  out  the  rough-hewn  wooden  cross  that 
marked  the  summit,  masses  of  clouds  scurrying  past  it,  as  if  pursued  by 
some  enemy  beyond.  Once  I passed  a half-wild  Indian  girl  with  a baby 
on  her  back,  who  ran  away  down  an  unmarked,  break-neck  place  in  a 
way  to  suggest  that  she  had  taken  me  for  the  Fiend  in  person.  No 
doubt  the  resemblance  was  striking.  Higher  still,  two  or  three  groups 
of  the  same  tribe  came  down  at  a queer  little  dog-trot,  the  heavy  loads 
on  their  backs  supported  by  a shawl  knotted  across  their  shoulders,  the 
plump  breasts  of  the  women  undulating  under  their  dirty,  one-piece 
garments.  In  midmorning  we  stood  at  last  on  the  summit  of  the 
famous  Ahorcado  — the  Hanged  Man  — range,  so  named  from  some 
episode  of  the  Conquest,  a “ knife-edge  ” indeed,  where  the  god  of  the 
winds  seemed  to  have  his  chief  warehouse.  For  once  the  view  was  en- 
tirely free  from  mist.  To  the  east,  the  V-shaped  valley  up  which  we 
had  come  lay  far  below,  twisting  away  to  the  left,  to  be  lost  at  last  be- 
tween hazy  mountain  chains.  There  were  many  more  farmers  here 
than  in  the  rich  and  level  Cauca  valley,  either  because  the  government 
is  too  far  distant  to  drive  them  out  by  its  exactions,  or  because  the  In- 
dian is  in  his  element  among  these  lofty  ranges.  On  every  hand  the 
steep  mountain  sides  were  flecked  with  little  farms  of  all  possible 
shapes,  colored  by  green  or  ripening  grain  or  corn,  a tiny  hut  in  the 
center  of  each  patch,  minute  with  distance,  but  as  clearly  visible  as  if 
only  a few  yards  away.  To  the  west  lay  a pandemonium  of  mighty 
valleys,  pitched  and  tumbled  peaks,  gigantic  saw-toothed  ranges,  seen 
and  suggested  into  the  uttermost  distance. 

But  one  could  not  stand  long  in  so  icy  a wind  to  admire  even  such  a 

96 


The  market-place  of  Cajiblo,  in  the  highlands  of  Popayan.  In  the  right-center  is  the  village  priest,  with  a pole  attached  to  a bag 
under  his  arm.  demanding  contributions  of  each  hawker.  Though  the  region  is  decidedly  cold  at  night  or  in  the 
shade,  the  unclouded  sun  burns  the  skin  quickly,  hence  the  woven-reed  sunshades 


DOWN  THE  ANDES  TO  QUITO 


scene.  A few  yards  below,  the  road  forked,  one  branch  stumbling 
headlong  down  into  that  chaotic  jumble  of  wooded  hills  and  valleys, 
the  other  striking  off  through  the  forest  along  the  flank  of  the  range. 
A mistake  at  that  height  might  mean  hours  or  even  days  of  extra  toil. 
We  chose  at  random  and  trusted  to  luck.  The  soft,  almost  level  road 
plunged  away  through  a dense  green  forest,  as  truly  “ bearded  with 
moss  ” as  any  in  our  North,  yet  rich  with  parasites  and  ferns.  Great 
oaks  littered  the  ground  with  acorns.  I drew  ahead  and  marched  on 
through  utter  solitude,  the  stillness  broken  only  by  the  cold  wind  from 
the  south,  immense  vistas  of  dense-wooded  Andes  now  and  then  open- 
ing out  through  a break  in  the  tree-tops.  Where  the  forest  began  to 
give  way,  my  misgivings  were  set  at  rest  by  a group  of  dull-eyed  Indians 
of  both  sexes,  their  mouths  stained  with  coca-leaves,  plodding  upward 
in  single  file,  still  maudlin  with  the  fire-water  that  marked  the  vicinity 
of  a town.  All  wore  heavy,  cream-colored  felt  hats,  and  bore  varying 
burdens,  the  women  carrying  the  heavier  loads  and  in  addition  a 
baby  slung  across  their  breasts  by  a cloth  knotted  behind  the  neck. 

Not  far  beyond,  I burst  out  suddenly  upon  a full  view  of  Almaguer, 
almost  directly  below,  perched  astride  a narrow  ridge  between  two 
mountains,  serene  in  its  precarious  seat  despite  the  raging  wind  that 
seemed  constantly  threatening  to  blow  it  off  into  oblivion.  Then,  as 
suddenly,  it  disappeared,  and  I was  almost  within  the  town  before  I 
caught  sight  of  it  again. 

Here  we  caught  one  Barbara  Diaz  red-handed  in  the  act  of  feeding 
her  swarming  family,  and  refused  to  be  driven  away.  Lodging,  how- 
ever, seemed  unattainable.  A woman  seated  on  her  earth  floor  before 
an  American  sewing-machine  run  by  hand  carelessly  admitted  that  she 
had  a room  to  rent  before  she  thought  to  say  “ further  on.”  But  on 
second  thoughts  she  decided  that  it  would  be  “ muy  trabajoso  ” to  pre- 
pare it  for  us  — in  other  words,  very  tiresome  to  get  up  from  the  floor 
and  produce  a key.  The  alcalde  was  out  of  town ; the  one  woman  who 
owned  a vacant  little  shop  asserted  with  an  air  of  finality  that  her 
husband  was  not  at  home.  I turned  to  the  court  of  last  appeal,  the 
village  priest.  He  was  a long-unshaven  but  pleasant  fellow  of  forty, 
educated  in  the  seminary  of  Popayan,  occupying,  with  a discreet  but 
attractive  young  “ housekeeper,”  the  second-best  building  in  town  — 
the  best  being  the  mud  church  adjoining.  His  well-stocked  library,  in 
Latin  and  Spanish,  with  a few  volumes  in  French  and  English,  was  a 
feast  for  the  eyes  in  these  bookless  wilds.  During  our  long  chat  the 
good  padre  asserted  that  all  the  Indians  for  a hundred  miles  around 

97 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


were  good  and  faithful  Catholics,  and  that  almost  all  of  them  could 
read  and  write ! He  had  long  planned  to  learn  English,  but  had  “ such 
a fearful  lot  of  work  to  do,  so  many  masses  to  say  every  day  and  con- 
fessions without  rest.”  He  took  down  a book  and  requested  me  to 
read  some  English  aloud,  “just  to  hear  how  it  sounds.”  Casu- 
ally, somewhere  during  the  interview,  I brought  in  a brief  refer- 
ence to  lodging,  and  the  padre  forthwith  sent  across  the  plaza  a small 
boy  who  soon  returned  and  led  us  to  the  same  woman  who  had  last 
turned  us  away.  Now  that  the  padre  ordered,  she  had  no  hesitancy  in 
overlooking  the  absence  of  her  husband.  The  lodging  cost  us  nothing, 
which  was  exactly  what  it  was  worth.  It  was  the  usual  mud  cavern, 
with  a floor  of  trodden  earth,  cold  as  a dungeon  in  contrast  to  the 
blazing  sunshine  outside,  and,  having  once  been  a shop,  was  all  but 
filled  with  a dust-carpeted  counter  and  yawning  shelves  curtained  and 
draped  with  cobwebs.  Hays  drew  the  counter,  but  I found  room  to 
stow  myself  away  on  one  of  the  higher  shelves,  though  with  neither 
mattress  nor  covering  and  a wind  as  off  the  antarctic  ice  sweeping  at 
express  speed  across  the  thin  cuchillo  between  two  bottomless  Andean 
gullies,  we  did  not  look  forward  to  darkness  with  pleasure. 

The  only  water  supply  of  Almaguer,  attached  to  the  world  only  by 
the  “ royal  highway”  at  either  end,  was  a little  wooden  spout  project- 
ing from  the  hillside.  The  estanquillo  had  no  lack  of  aguardiente,  how- 
ever, and  as  to  washing,  Almaguer  avoids  what  would  otherwise  be  a 
difficulty  by  never  having  formed  the  habit.  The  making  of  candles  is 
its  chief  industry.  A bluish  wax  is  gathered  from  a “laurel”  tree 
which  abounds  in  the  region,  and  even  the  acting  alcalde  spent  the  even- 
ing making  candles  by  dipping  pieces  of  string  again  and  again  into  a 
bowl  of  molten  wax.  That  worthy  was  also  village  schoolmaster  and 
purveyor  of  patent  medicines  to  Almaguer ; a lank,  ungainly  man  in  an 
habitual  lack  of  shave,  with  a handkerchief  knotted  about  his  neck  like 
a Liverpool  wharf-rat.  Before  the  sun  had  set  he  ahd  given  us  a score 
of  commissions,  chiefly  in  the  patent  medicine  line,  to  be  fulfilled  when 
we  returned  to  the  “ Europe.”  Then  he  fell  to  talking  of  a “ Meestare 
Eddy  Sone  ” and  his  inventions.  For  some  time  we  fancied  the  per- 
sonage in  question  was  some  local  celebrity,  and  not  until  the  patent- 
medicine-schoolmaster-alcalde  had  turned  the  conversation  to  a 
“ Meestare  Frunk  Lean,”  who  was  also,  it  seemed,  a great  gringo 
electrician,  and  answered  to  the  surname  of  Benjamin,  did  we  catch 
the  drift  of  his  monologue.  He  had  brought  up  the  subject,  it  turned 
out,  because  he  had  long  been  curious  to  know  whether  the  Meestares 

98 


DOWN  THE  ANDES  TO  QUITO 


Frank  Lean  and  Eddy  Sone  often  met  to  plan  their  work  together,  or 
whether,  as  so  often  happened  among  the  great  men  of  Almaguer,  they 
were  unfortunately  rivals  and  enemies. 

It  is  always  a long  time  night  in  this  Andean  land  of  no  lights  and 
little  covering.  The  read-less  evenings  seem  interminable.  Small 
wonder  the  inhabitants  are  ignorant  and  priest-ridden  when  they  can 
only  sit  and  gossip  after  the  sun  goes  down.  The  traveler  eats  supper 

— if  it  is  to  be  had  — takes  a walk,  talks  awhile  with  some  one  — if 
he  is  gifted  with  the  medieval  art  of  conversation  — comes  “ home,” 
sits  around  awhile  on  the  earth  floor  or  an  adobe  block,  thinks  over  his 
past  history  and  future  plans  — if  any  — wishes  he  smoked,  and,  finally 
deciding  to  go  to  bed,  looks  at  his  tin  watch  to  find  it  is  almost  seven ! 
In  Almaguer  there  were  none  of  these  drawbacks.  For,  as  I lay  abed, 

— on  my  upper  shelf  — the  “ laurel  ” candle  gave  sufficient  flicker  by. 
which  to  make  out  the  dimly  printed  pages  of  a Bogota  masterpiece 

— so  long  as  I kept  wide  enough  awake  to  balance  the  candlestick  on 
my  forehead. 

It  is  not  far  from  Almaguer  to  its  twin  city  of  Bolivar ; yet  they 
are  far  apart.  On  the  map  one  could  stroll  over  in  an  hour  or  two, 
pausing  for  a nap  on  the  way.  So  could  one  in  real  life  but  for  a single 
drawback, — the  lack  of  a bridge.  Both  towns,  the  largest  between 
Popayan  and  Pasto,  lie  at  about  the  same  7500  feet  above  the  level  of 
the  sea ; but  between  them  is  a gash  in  the  earth  which  does  not  reach 
to  the  infernal  regions  simply  and  only  because  these  are  not  situated 
where  ancient  — and  some  modern  — theologians  fancied  them. 

For  days  now  there  had  been  persistent  rumors  of  salteadores,  high- 
way robbers,  reputed  experts  in  the  art  of  shooting  travelers  in  the  back 
from  any  of  the  countless  hiding-places  along  the  trail.  Every  town, 
in  turn,  asserted  that  its  own  region  was  eminently  safe ; the  danger 
was  always  in  the  next  one.  Each  traveler  we  met  — and  they  were 
never  alone  — carried  a rifle  or  a musket.  Once,  at  an  awkward  defile, 
we  suddenly  caught  sight  of  an  ugly-looking  group  of  ruffians  on  a 
knoll  above,  and  our  back  muscles  twitched  reflexively  until  we  had 
climbed  out  of  range.  The  fact  that  our  own  weapons  hung  in  plain 
sight  may  have  been  the  cause  of  their  inaction.  Again,  in  San 
Lorenzo,  of  especially  evil  repute,  several  shifty-eyed  fellows  showed 
great  interest  in  our  movements.  When  we  took  the  opportunity  to 
oil  our  side-arms  and  demonstrate  their  quick  action,  however,  the 
group  assured  us  that  the  robbers  never  troubled  foreigners,  and 
faded  gradually  away. 


99 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


The  danger,  if  it  existed,  was  multiplied  by  the  fact  that  we 
were  forced  to  canvass  the  town  until  we  had  changed  our  money  into 
silver.  We  were  about  to  enter  the  half-autonomous  Department  of 
Nariho,  southernmost  of  Colombia,  where  the  paper  bills  of  the  central 
government  have  never  been  accepted.  Yet  the  department  has  no 
money  of  its  own.  Silver  coins  of  whatever  origin  have  a fixed  worth, 
according  to  size  rather  than  face  value,  those  with  holes  in  them  losing 
nothing  thereby.  Pieces  of  the  weight  of  our  silver  dollar  were  known 
as  fnertes,  and  valued  at  36  cents.  Our  quarter,  or  an  English  shilling, 
was  accepted  as  “ dos  reales,” — seven  cents.  Among  the  hodgepodge 
of  coins  that  came  into  my  possession  was  a two-peseta  piece  of  old 
Spain,  dated  1794  under  the  profile  of  Charles  IV.  The  shopkeeper 
with  whom  I spent  it  valued  it  at  two  rcales  because  it  was  somewhat 
smaller  than  the  four-real  piece,  but  after  an  argument  accepted  it  as 
four.  The  twenty  dollars  we  each  gathered  made  a sackful  nearly  as 
heavy  as  all  the  rest  of  our  baggage. 

The  landscape,  too,  had  changed.  Instead  of  the  hot,  dry,  re- 
pulsive ranges  behind,  we  were  again  in  deep-green  woods  and  fields, 
the  trail  climbing  from  bamboo-clad  valleys  where  ran  cold  mountain 
streams  so  clear  we  could  not  see  the  water,  but  only  the  bottom  of  the 
bed,  to  wind-swept  oaken  heights.  In  places  there  were  slight  outcrop- 
pings of  coal.  Then  a lung-bursting  road  rick-racked  for  hours  up  a 
wall-like  mountainside,  now  and  then,  when  we  were  ready  to  drop 
from  exhaustion,  bringing  us  out  on  a little  level  space,  like  a landing  on 
an  endless  stairway,  then  scrambling  on  up  still  steeper  heights.  When 
at  last  we  stood  on  the  blade-edge  of  the  Cuchillo  de  Bateros,  dividing 
autonomous  Narino  from  the  rest  of  Colombia,  Bolivar,  two  days  be- 
hind, lay  as  plainly  in  sight  as  a house  across  the  street,  the  immense 
peak  beside  it  sunk  to  an  insignificant  knoll.  To  the  west  we  could 
look  down  into  the  misty  valley  of  the  Patia  — and  wonder  whether  we 
would  not  have  done  better  to  have  taken  its  more  level  route,  for  all 
its  fevers. 

At  dusk  we  came  out  on  a headland  and  saw,  so  directly  below 
that  a false  step  would  have  pitched  us,  or  rather  our  mangled 
remains,  down  into  its  very  plaza,  the  mathematically  regular  town  of 
San  Pablo,  in  the  floor-flat  river  bottom  of  the  Rio  Mayo,  with  rich 
meadows  stretching  east  and  west  to  the  rocky  mountain  walls  that 
boxed  them  in.  The  descent  was  so  steep  that  we  could  only  hold  our 
own  by  wedging  our  toes  into  the  shale  and  keeping  our  thigh-muscles 
taut  as  brake-rods;  so  swift  that  the  trail  often  split  to  bits  from  its 

100 


Crossing  the  Cauca  River  with  a pack-train  by  one  of  the  typical  “ferries0  of  the  Andes 


A village  of  the  mountainous  region  south  of  Popayan 


DOWN  THE  ANDES  TO  QUITO 


own  momentum.  In  the  town  we  were  startled  to  have  the  first  boy 
we  met  admit  that  posada  could  be  had.  His  own  mother  had  a room 
to  rent.  He  laid  aside  the  hat  he  was  weaving  and,  picking  up  a 
bunch  of  enormous  keys,  stepped  toward  an  adobe  building  across 
the  street.  But  at  that  moment  a patched  and  barefoot  man  rushed 
down  upon  us,  likewise  offering  us  posada  in  a startling  burst  of  elo- 
quence. For  a time  it  looked  as  if,  for  once,  instead  of  having  to 
fight  for  lodgings,  lodgings  were  going  to  fight  for  us.  We  settled 
the  dispute  by  the  simple  expedient  of  asking  each  his  price. 

“ One  real,”  answered  the  boy,  defiantly. 

“ In  my  oficina  de  peluqueria’’  said  the  man,  haughtily,  “ it  will 
cost  you  nothing.  Moreover,  foreigners  always  lodge  there.” 

Behind  his  bravado  he  seemed  so  nearly  on  the  point  of  weeping 
that  we  should  no  doubt  have  chosen  his  “ office  of  barbering,”  even 
had  there  been  no  such  gulf  between  the  rival  prices.  He  thanked  us 
for  the  favor  and,  producing  from  somewhere  about  his  person  an 
enormous  key,  unlocked  one  of  those  unruly  shop-doors  indigenous 
to  rural  South  America,  above  which  projected  a shingle  bearing  on 
one  side  the  information  that  we  were  about  to  enter  the  “ Peluqueria 
Civica,”  and  on  the  other  the  name  of  our  host,  Santiago  Munoz. 
The  keyhole  was  of  the  shape  of  a swan ; others  in  the  town,  as 
throughout  Narino,  had  the  form  of  a man,  a horse,  a goose,  and  a 
dozen  more  as  curious.  These  home-made  doors  of  Andean  villages, 
be  it  said  in  passing,  never  fit  easily ; their  huge  clumsy  locks  have 
always  some  idiosyncrasy  of  their  own,  so  that  by  the  time  the 
traveler  learns  to  unlock  the  door  of  his  lodging  without  native  as- 
sistance, he  is  ready  to  move  on. 

This  one  gave  admittance  to  the  usual  white-washed  mud  den,  with 
a tile  floor,  furnished  as  a Colombian  barber-shop,  which  means  that 
it  was  chiefly  empty  and  by  no  means  immaculate,  with  two  wooden 
benches,  three  tin  basins  and  an  empty  water-pitcher,  a home-made 
— or  San  Pablo-made  — chair,  a lame  table  littered  with  newspapers 
from  a year  to  three  months  old,  a scanty  supply  of  open  razors, 
strops,  Florida  water,  soap,  and  brushes  scattered  promiscuously,  a 
couple  of  once-white  gowns  of  “ Mother  Hubbard  ” form  for  cus- 
tomers, and  in  one  corner  a heap  of  human  hair,  black  and  coarse. 
Then  there  were  the  luxuries  of  a clumsy  candlestick  with  six  inches 
of  candle,  and  a lace  curtain  worked  with  red  and  blue  flowers  to  cut 
off  the  gaze  of  the  curious,  except  those  bold  enough  frankly  to  push 
it  aside  and  stare  in  upon  us.  Santiago  gave  us  full  possession,  key 

IOI 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


and  all  — we  tossed  a coin  to  decide  which  of  us  should  burden  him- 
self with  the  latter  — and  informed  us  that  a woman  next  door  to  the 
church  sometimes  supplied  meals  to  travelers. 

The  benches  were  barely  a foot  wide,  but  they  were  of  soft  wood, 
and  we  were  so  delighted  to  find  accommodations  plentiful  that  I 
was  about  to  make  a similar  suggestion  when  Hays  yawned : 

“ Let 's  hang  over  here  to-morrow.” 

Late  next  morning  the  barber  wandered  in  upon  us. 

“ Last  year,”  he  began,  “ another  meestare  ” — in  the  Andes  the  word 
is  used  as  a common  noun  to  designate  not  only  Americans,  but  Euro- 
peans and  even  Spaniards — “stopped  here.  You  perhaps  know  him. 
His  name  was  Guiseppe.” 

We  doubted  it. 

“ Surely  you  must  know  him,”  persisted  the  barber,  “ he  was  a 
foreigner,  also.” 

As  he  talked,  Santiago  kept  fingering  a crumpled  letter.  Bit  by 
bit  he  half  betrayed,  half  admitted,  that  he  gave  free  lodging  to  estran- 
jcros  because  he  wished  to  keep  on  good  terms  with  the  “ outside  ” 
world  in  general,  and  in  particular  because  he  was  seeking  some  means 
of  sending  six  dollars  to  that  strange  town  beyond  the  national 
boundaries  from  which  all  foreigners  came.  When  he  had  explained 
himself  at  length,  he  turned  the  letter  over  to  us.  It  was  in  correct 
Spanish,  mimeographed  to  resemble  a typewritten  personal  communica- 
tion, and  told  in  several  pages  of  flowery  language  what  I can  per- 
haps condense  within  reasonable  limits : 

CHIROLOGICAL  COLLEGE  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Inspiration  Point, 

Echo  Park, 

Los  Angeles, 

Cal.  U.  S.  A. 

Muy  senor  mio : 

With  great  pleasure  we  send  you  a pamphlet  on  “ Secret  Force,”  because  we 
know  that  it  contains  information  which  will  be  of  vast  importance  to  you. 
as  a means  of  being  able  to  obtain  that  secret  knowledge  of  the  human  char- 
acter and  of  personal  influence  permitting  you  in  a moment  to  know  and 
understand  the  life  of  all  other  persons,  to  know  their  desires  and  their  intentions, 
their  habits  and  deficiencies,  their  plans  and  all  that  can  be  prejudicial  to  you. 
Following  our  system,  you  can  read  the  character  of  your  neighbors  as  an  open 
book ; if  you  possess  the  system  “ Natajara,”  there  will  be  no  one  who  can  deceive 
you ; by  means  of  it  you  can  know  beforehand  under  all  circumstances  all  that 
others  intend  to  do,  and  can  direct  them  to  your  own  entire  satisfaction.  By 

102 


DOWN  THE  ANDES  TO  QUITO 


means  of  the  system  “ Natajara  ” you  can  know  exactly  how  much  progress,  how 
much  love,  how  much  health,  and  how  much  happiness  the  future  has  in  store  for 
you ; and  if  it  does  not  reserve  for  you  as  much  as  you  desire,  you  can  change  its 
course  to  suit  your  ambitions. 

Never,  in  the  present  century  or  those  past,  has  a more  potent  knowledge 
been  given  to  the  world.  It  teaches  precisely  when  and  how  to  use  the 
magic  force  by  means  of  which  one  obtains  the  realization  of  all  desires;  it 
places  those  who  possess  it  in  a sphere  superior  to  the  generality  of  mankind, 
makes  them  masters  of  destiny.  ...  I dare  not  tell  you  all  the  advantages  of 
this  knowledge,  but  I assure  you  it  is  what  you  need  that  your  life  convert 
itself  into  a true  success.  I beg  you  to  read  the  “ Secret  Force,”  letter  by  letter, 
and  to  send  at  once  for  the  system  “Natajara.”  Remember  that  the  sending  to 
you  of  the  system  for  a mere  $6  is  only  a special  offer  that  we  make,  and  if  you 
wish  to  have  the  privilege  of  being  the  first  in  your  locality  to  possess  these  great 
secrets,  you  ought  to  send  this  very  day. 

Without  further  particulars,  etc.,  I take  great  pleasure  in  signing  myself 
Your  grateful  and  affectionate  servant, 

(Signed)  A.  Victor  Segno, 

President  per  Sec. 

Dictated  to  No.  1 S. 

There  was  no  doubt  that  Santiago  had  followed  the  injunction  to 
read  the  pamphlet  letter  by  letter.  Thanks  to  his  Colombian  school- 
ing, that  was  the  only  way  he  could  read  it.  But  how  was  he  to  send 
the  mere  $6  to  Inspiration  Point  without  his  fellow-townsmen  know- 
ing it  and  perhaps  forestalling  his  opportunity  to  be  the  first  in  his 
locality  to  possess  the  powerful  secret?  There  is  no  postal-order  sys- 
tem between  Colombia  and  the  United  States.  He  dared  not  send  the 
cash,  even  if  so  large  an  amount  of  Narino  silver  could  be  enclosed 
in  a parcel  the  post  would  carry.  So  he  had  hidden  the  letter  away 
and  lain  in  wait  for  the  rare  foreigners  that  drift  into  San  Pablo. 
While  we  read  it,  he  sat  on  one  of  our  “ beds  ” nervously  fingering 
his  toes.  When  we  had  finished,  he  begged  us  to  find  some  way  of 
sending  the  money,  imploring  us,  on  our  hopes  of  eternity,  not  to 
whisper  a word  of  the  secret  to  his  fellow-townsmen.  We  promised  to 
think  the  matter  over. 

“ When  are  you  going  to  open  the  shop  this  morning?”  asked  Hays, 
as  our  host  turned  toward  the  door. 

“ Oh,  I shall  not  trouble  to  open  to-day,”  said  the  barber,  in  a weary 
voice,  and  wandered  away  with  the  air  of  a man  who  sees  no  need 
of  common  toil  when  he  is  on  the  point  of  becoming  the  dictator  of 
fate  in  all  his  locality. 

We  hatched  a scheme  against  his  return.  If  we  fancied  he  might 

103 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


forget  the  matter,  we  were  deceived.  Nothing  else  seemed  to  be 
weighing  on  his  mind  when  he  turned  up  again  in  the  evening,  dejected 
and  worried.  To  have  tried  to  explain  the  truth  to  him  would  have 
been  only  to  convince  him  that  we  were  agents  of  some  rival  house, 
sent  down  here  purposely  to  ruin  his  chances  of  imposing  his  will 
upon  San  Pablo. 

“ If  you  feel  you  must  have  this  system,”  I began,  “ I ’ll  tell  you 
what  I ’ll  do.  I have  some  money  in  a bank  in  the  Estados  Unidos, 
and  I will  give  you  a personal  check  for  $6  that  you  can  mail  to  the 
Chirological  College.” 

“Magnifico!”  cried  the  barber,  instantly  transformed  from  the 
depths  of  gloom  to  the  summits  of  glee,  “ A thousand  thanks.  That 
will  be  $600  in  billetes  of  Colombia.  I will  get  it  at  once.  . . .” 

“ It  will  be  simpler,”  I suggested,  “ to  wait  until  you  hear  the  check 
has  arrived;  then  send  it  to  me.  Naturally  I am  running  no  risk 
in  trusting  one  of  the  chief  men  of  San  Pablo.  Anyway,  it  would  only 
be  in  payment  for  our  magnificent  lodgings.” 

The  Colombian  rarely  needs  much  urging  to  accept  a favor,  and  his 
formal  protests  soon  died  away.  I sat  down  to  write  the  check : 

The  Fake  Bank, 

920  West  noth  Street, 

New  York,  U.  S.  A. 

Pay  to  the  order  of  the 
Chirological  College  of 
Los  Angeles,  Cal., 
the  sum  of  six  dollars  ($6). 

Baron  Munchausen. 

The  barber  carefully  folded  the  valuable  document  and  hid  it  away 
in  his  garments,  promising  to  send  it  at  the  first  opportunity  — in  a 
plain  envelope,  unregistered : “ For,”  he  explained,  confiding  to  us  a 

nation-wide  secret,  “ the  post-office  officials  always  steal  any  letter  they 
think  has  money  in  it,  and  to  register  it  makes  them  sure.it  has.” 

The  plan  was  cruel,  but  we  could  think  of  no  other.  No  doubt 
Santiago  waited  many  anxious  months  for  the  arrival  of  the  “ sys- 
tem”; certainly  no  longer  than  he  would  have  if  he  had  managed  to 
send  real  money.  Meanwhile,  as  Latin-American  enthusiasm  shrinks 
rapidly,  it  may  be  that  he  grew  resigned  to  his  failure  to  become  the  dic- 
tator of  San  Pablo  and  took  up  again  the  shaving  of  its  swarthy  faces 
and  the  cutting  of  its  coarse,  black  hair. 

Every  house  of  San  Pablo  is  a factory  of  “ panama  ” hats.  The 

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DOWN  THE  ANDES  TO  QUITO 


“ straw  ” is  furnished  by  the  toquilla  plant,  a reed  somewhat  resem- 
bling the  sugarcane  in  appearance,  which  grows  in  large  quantities  in 
the  valley  of  the  Patia.  If  left  to  itself,  the  plant  at  length  blossoms 
or  “ leaves  ” out  in  the  form  of  a fan-shaped  fern.  Once  it  has 
reached  this  stage,  it  is  no  longer  useful  to  the  weaver  of  hats.  For 
his  purposes  the  leaves  must  be  nipped  in  the  bud,  so  to  speak, — gath- 
ered while  still  in  the  stalk.  The  green  layers  that  would,  but  for  this 
premature  end,  have  expanded  later  into  leaves,  are  spread  out  and 
cut  into  narrow  strips  with  a comb-shaped  knife.  The  finer  the  cut- 
ting, the  more  expensive  the  hat.  Between  the  material  of  a $2  and  a 
$50  “ panama  ” there  is  no  difference  whatever,  except  in  the  width  of 
the  strips.  Boiled  and  laid  out  in  the  sun  and  wind,  these  curl  tightly 
together.  They  are  then  bleached  white  in  a sulphur  oven  and  sold  to 
the  weaver  in  the  form  of  tufts  not  unlike  the  broom  straw,  or  a 
bunch  of  prairie-grass.  The  Patia  produces  also  a much  heavier  leaf, 
called  mocora,  from  which  not  only  coarse  hats  but  hammocks  are 
twisted. 

The  weaving  of  the  “ panama  ” begins  at  the  crown,  and  the  edge 
of  the  brim  is  still  unfinished,  with  protruding  “ straws,”  when  turned 
over  to  the  wholesale  dealer.  Packed  one  inside  the  other  in  bales  a 
yard  long,  they  are  carried  on  muleback  to  Pasto.  There,  more 
skillful  workmen  bind  in  and  trim  the  edges.  They  are  then  placed 
in  large  mud  ovens  of  beehive  shape  in  which  quantities  of  sulphur 
are  burned.  Next  they  are  laid  out  in  the  back  yard  of  the  establish- 
ment — with  chickens,  dogs,  and  other  fauna  common  to  the  dwell- 
ings of  the  Andes  wandering  over  them,  be  it  said  in  passing  — to 
bleach  in  the  sun ; they  are  rubbed  with  starch  to  give  them  a false 
whiteness,  and  finally  men  and  boys  pound  and  pound  them  on  blocks 
with  heavy  wooden  mallets,  as  if  bent  on  their  utter  destruction,  tossing 
them  aside  at  last,  folded  and  beaten  flat,  in  the  form  in  which  they 
appear  eventually  in  the  show-windows  of  our  own  land.  The  best 
can  be  woven  only  morning  or  evening,  or  when  the  moon  is  full  and 
bright,  the  humidity  of  the  air  being  then  just  sufficient  to  give  the 
fiber  the  required  flexibility. 

The  local  names  for  the  entire  process  are : 

“ Tejar” — the  task  of  the  weaver. 

“ Azocar  ” — the  drawing  together  and  trimming  of  the  protruding 
“ straws.” 

“ Azufrar  ” — the  baking  over  burning  sulphur. 

“ Banar  en  leche  de  azufre” — washing  in  a sulphur  bath. 

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VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


“ Limpiar  con  trapo  ” — scrubbing  with  rags  dipped  in  starch. 

“ Mazatear  ” — beating  with  mallets. 

“ Doric  forma” — pressing  the  hat  tightly  over  a wooden  form  to 
give  it  the  final  shape,  after  which  it  is  folded  and  ready  for  shipment. 
The  complete  process  from  buying  to  shipping  costs  the  wholesale 
dealer  about  a dollar  a dozen. 

Virtually  every  inhabitant  of  San  Pablo  is,  from  childhood,  an  ex- 
pert weaver  of  hats.  We  had  only  to  glance  in  at  a door  to  be  almost 
sure  to  find  the  entire  family,  large  and  small,  so  engaged.  They 
squatted  on  their  earth  floors,  leaned  in  their  doorways,  wandered  the 
streets,  incessantly  weaving  hats;  they  gossiped  and  quarreled,  they 
grew  vociferous  in  political  discussion,  and  still  they  went  on  weaving. 
They  shouted  across  the  plaza  to  the  two  “ meestares  ” that  were  the 
guests  of  Santiago,  the  barber,  a “ Where-do-you-come-from-where- 
are-you-going-what-is-your-native-land?  ” in  one  single  flow  of  words, 
without  a pause  for  breath,  but  their  fingers  continued  to  weave  hats 
as  steadily  as  if  they  were  automatic  contrivances.  We  were  told  that 
in  all  the  history  of  the  town  only  one  boy  had  been  too  stupid  to  learn 
to  weave.  He  was  now  the  priest  of  a neighboring  hamlet.  Some 
make  a regular  business  of  it  and  weave  several  hats  a week,  as  many 
as  one  “ comun  ” a day.  Only  the  rare  victim  of  an  artistic  tempera- 
ment prides  himself  on  putting  his  best  efforts,  and  from  two  weeks  to 
a month  of  work,  into  an  article  of  fine  weave,  to  receive  a small  for- 
tune of  eight  or  ten  dollars  in  one  windfall.  It  is  in  keeping  with 
Latin-American  character  that  only  a very  few  choose  this  extended 
effort,  instead  of  the  short,  ready-money  task  of  weaving  “ comunes.” 
The  government  telegraph  operator  of  San  Pablo  — who  probably  aver- 
ages a dozen  messages  a week  — had  a record  of  one  hat  a day,  six 
hats  a week,  the  year  round.  That  was  probably  at  least  double  the 
average  output,  for  very  few  worked  with  any  such  marked  in- 
dustry. The  overwhelming  majority  are  amateur  weavers,  making 
one  hat  a week  merely  as  an  avocation  in  the  interstices  of  their 
more  regular  occupations  of  cooking,  planting,  shopkeeping,  school- 
teaching, and  loafing.  The  boy  in  need  of  spending  money,  the  village 
sport  who  plans  a celebration,  the  Indian  whose  iron-lined  stomach 
craves  a draught  of  the  fiery  cana,  the  pious  old  woman  fearful  of 
losing  the  goodwill  of  her  cura,  all  fall  to  and  weave  a hat  in  time  for 
the  Saturday  market.  Had  they  not  these  desires,  unimportant  though 
they  may  be,  those  in  far-off  lands  who  wear  such  head-dress  would 
pay  more  dearly  for  a scarcer  article.  The  more  thrifty  and  am- 

106 


DOWN  THE  ANDES  TO  QUITO 


bitious  begin  to  braid  next  week’s  hat  on  the  way  home  from  market. 
By  Sunday  noon  the  hut  is  rare  in  all  the  land  around  in  which  at 
least  one  “panama”  has  not  begun  to  come  into  being;  by  Monday 
even  the  liquor-soaked  have  begun  to  see  the  necessity  of  getting  busy, 
on  penalty  of  suffering  a dry  week-end.  The  result  is  that  the  traveler 
can  almost  tell  the  day  of  the  week  by  the  stage  of  development  of  the 
hats  he  meets  along  the  route. 

The  center  of  the  Nariho  hat  industry  is  Pasto.  Not  that  its  in- 
habitants are  weavers,  but  here  orders  are  received  from  the  outside 
world  and  distributed  among  the  towns  of  the  province.  Thus  Jesus  Diaz, 
local  agent  of  San  Pablo,  receives  one  morning  a telegram  worded : 

“ Suspend  12-15;  start  11-13.” 

The  figures  refer  to  centimeters  of  brim  and  crown,  the  only  varia- 
tion of  style  being  in  the  comparative  width  of  these.  “ Castores  ” are 
made  for  the  American  trade;  “ parejos  ” — “equals,”  of  which  brim 
and  crown  are  of  the  same  width, — go  to  Spain;  the  “ ratonera,”  of 
very  narrow  brim,  finds  its  market  in  Habana.  The  weavers  of  San 
Pablo  can  seldom  be  induced  to  make  the  wide-brimmed  hats  for 
women,  since  these  can  be  sold  only  in  the  United  States  and  the  market 
is  very  uncertain,  “ because  there,”  a woman  confided  to  us,  “ the 
style  is  always  changing,  as  if  they  do  not  know  their  own  minds.” 
Unless  they  can  be  sold  in  our  own  land,  these  broad-brimmed  hats  are 
worthless,  for  the  women  of  Nariho  wear  only  what  we  would  con- 
sider “ men’s  styles.”  Those  worn  in  San  Pablo  are  of  a square- 
topped,  ugly  form,  roughly  woven,  as  if  each  consigned  to  his  own 
head  those  so  carelessly  made  that  they  cannot  be  sold. 

His  telegram  received,  Jesus  sends  his  subagents  out  through  the 
hamlets  with  the  new  specifications,  here  and  there  to  prepay  some- 
thing on  the  new  order.  For  so  from  hand  to  mouth  do  many  of  the 
weavers  live  that  they  are  frequently  unable  to  buy  the  materials  for 
the  next  hat  without  the  agent’s  “ advance.”  The  “ straw  ” for  one 
hat  costs  from  one  to  forty  cents,  depending  on  the  fineness.  The 
high  price  of  the  better  grades  is  chiefly  due  to  the  long  labor  in- 
volved in  the  weaving,  with,  of  course,  the  usual  heavy  middleman 
profits  between  maker  and  ultimate  consumer.  The  daily  hat  of  the 
telegraph  operator  brought  him  from  ninety  cents  to  a dollar;  the 
final  purchaser  in  the  United  States  would  pay  $4  or  $5  for  it.  The 
name  “ panama  ” is  unknown  in  Nariho  in  connection  with  hats. 
None  were  ever  made  on  the  Isthmus ; they  took  the  name  by  which  we 
know  them  because  Panama  was  long  the  chief  distributing  center.  To 

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VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


their  makers  they  are  known  simply  as  “ hats,”  or,  if  it  is  necessary  to 
specify,  as  sombreros  de  paja  (straw  hats),  or  sombreros  de  pieza. 
The  best  hats  in  all  Colombia  were  said  to  be  made  in  La  Union,  a little 
town  lying  in  plain  sight  on  a sloping  hillside  to  the  east ; but  in  spite 
of  their  patriotism,  many  admitted  that  the  best  on  earth  are  those  of 
jipijapa,  made  in  Manabi,  Ecuador.  An  old  woman  of  La  Union  had 
won  many  prizes  and  awards  in  national  and  even  international  expo- 
sitions, not  merely  for  her  hats,  which  sold  for  a hundred  fuertes  here, 
and  for  $100  in  Europe  or  the  United  States,  but  for  aprons  and  other 
garments  woven  of  the  same  “ straw.”  The  people  of  San  Pablo  com- 
plained that  the  Japanese,  especially  of  the  Island  of  Formosa,  were 
capturing  much  of  the  world's  trade  with  a clever  imitation  of 
Colombian  hats,  very  fine  and  light,  but  of  an  inferior  “ straw  ” that 
has  little  durability. 

Dawn,  the  next  morning,  found  us  clattering  away  down  the  cobble- 
stones of  San  Pablo,  the  gigantic  key  protruding  from  its  swan- 
shaped hole  until  Santiago,  the  barber,  saw  fit  to  awake  from  his 
dreams  of  future  glory.  At  the  top  of  a range  beyond  we  met  the 
first  pastusos,  solemn-faced  horsemen  in  winter  garments  and  heavy 
ruanas  of  army  blue.  On  the  further  slope  and  the  rich  uplands  be- 
yond there  were  many  Indian  hamlets,  each  thatched  house  in  a little 
field  of  its  own.  The  golden-brown  grain  of  our  homeland,  the  al- 
most forgotten  wheat,  began  to  appear  in  patches  on  the  hillsides,  with 
little  fenced  threshing-floors  of  trodden  earth,  round  and  round  which 
the  peasants  chased  their  unharnessed  horses.  Every  family  had  its 
patch  of  wheat,  corn,  or  potatoes,  according  to  the  altitude.  Among 
the  latter  were  many  species  unfamiliar  to  us  of  the  north,  some  with 
red,  pink,  or  purple  blossoms,  whole  acres  of  one  color ; for  we  were 
nearing  the  original  home  of  the  potato.  In  his  own  slow  way  the  An- 
dean Indian  still  cultivates  as  in  the  days  of  the  Incas  many  varieties 
unknown  to  the  world  at  large,  among  others  one  shaped  like  the 
“ double-jointed  ” peanuts  of  baseball  fame,  almost  liquid  inside. 

Higher  still  grew  quinoa,  somewhat  like  our  burdock  in  appearance, 
the  top  full  of  seeds  not  unlike  the  lentil, — a palatable  grain  which 
for  some  strange  reason  has  never  been  carried  to  other  parts  of  the 
world.  Under  progressive  farmers  and  modern  methods,  the  region 
of  Pasto  could  be  the  richest  agricultural  section  of  Colombia.  But 
the  Indian  clings  tenaciously  to  the  ways  of  his  ancestors,  though  in 
this  autonomous  department  he  is  a free  or  community  owner  and  lives 
far  more  comfortably  than  do  the  estate  laborers  to  the  north.  An 

108 


DOWN  THE  ANDES  TO  QUITO 


American  farmer  would  gasp  at  the  laborious  methods  in  vogue  in  a 
Colombian  wheat-field.  At  harvest  time,  the  phases  of  the  moon 
being  propitious,  the  saints  and  ancestral  gods  placated,  men,  women, 
and  children  wander  out  to  the  fields  to  cut  the  grain  stalk  by  stalk, 
tie  it  into  bundles  as  leisurely  as  if  life  were  ten  thousand  years  long, 
and,  with  a sheaf  or  two  on  their  backs,  toil  away  over  the  hills  to 
their  huts.  There  it  is  threshed  by  hand,  or  under  the  hoofs  of 
animals ; the  chaff  is  separated  by  tossing  the  grain  into  the  air  with 
wicker-woven  shovels,  after  which  the  wheat  is  spread  out  on  a mat  in 
the  sun  for  days,  turned  over  frequently  and  carried  into  the  house  by 
night.  Once  dry,  it  is  ground  by  hand  under  a stone  roller,  beaten 
into  flour,  and  baked  over  a fagot  fire  in  crude  adobe  ovens  of  bee- 
hive shape.  Small  vyonder  the  two  soggy  little  loaves  of  bread  a 
woman  raked  out  of  one  of  these,  and  which  I went  on  tossing  from 
hand  to  hand,  cost  twice  what  a real  loaf  would  in  the  United  States. 

A valley  with  a decided  tip  to  the  south  drew  us  swiftly  on,  as  only 
easy  going  can,  after  steep  and  toilsome  trails,  and  the  afternoon  was 
still  young  when  we  halted  at  San  Jose,  twenty-two  miles  from  the 
barber’s  door.  Here  it  “ made  much  cold,”  and  we  were  warned  that 
it  would  make  even  more  so  in  Pasto.  But  native  information  on  this 
point  is  seldom  of  much  value  to  the  traveler.  In  the  Andes,  climate 
varies  not  by  season  but  by  location  or  altitude,  and  very  few  of  the 
country  people  have  any  notion  why  one  town  differs  in  temperature 
from  another.  Accustomed  all  their  lives  to  the  fixed  climate  of 
their  birthplace,  they  consider  “ bitter  cold,”  or  “ de  un  calor  atroz  ” 
(of  atrocious  heat),  a neighboring  hamlet  where  the  mercury  really 
falls  but  a few  degrees  lower  or  rises  a bit  higher.  They  accept  the 
variation  with  the  same  passive  indifference  that  governs  their  lives 
from  mother’s  back  to  the  grave,  their  Catholic  training  stifling  the 
query  “ why.”  The  fact  remains ; the  reason  — “ sabe  Dios  porque.” 

It  was  September  thirteenth,  the  first  anniversary  of  the  beginning 
of  my  Latin-American  journey,  when  we  swung  on  our  packs  again. 
In  spite  of  our  resolutions,  the  proximity  of  a city  had  the  usual  effect 
of  increasing  our  ordinarily  leisurely  gait.  Sunrise  overtook  us  strid- 
ing down  the  great  San  Bernardo  valley,  a vast,  well-inhabited  gorge, 
cultivated  far  up  the  mountain  sides.  Sugarcane  mottled  the  land- 
scape here  and  there  with  its  Nile-green.  Every  hut  had  its  trapiche, 
a crude  crusher  with  wooden  rollers  operated  by  oxen,  or  a still  cruder 
one  run  by  hand.  Bananas  were  plentiful ; oranges  lay  rotting  in  thou- 
sands along  the  way.  As  the  sun  rose  higher  the  pastuso  arrieros  and 

109 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


horsemen  threw  the  sides  of  their  ruanas  back  over  their  shoulders, 
disclosing  the  bright  red  linings.  Once  it  had  crossed  the  river  at  the 
bottom  of  the  valley,  the  road  — and  it  was  a real  road  now,  speaking 
well  of  the  industry  of  Nariho  province  — swung  round  and  round 
the  toothlike  flanks  of  the  mountain  wall,  rising  ever  higher  for  many 
miles,  yet  so  gradually  that  we  were  scarcely  conscious  of  climbing. 
Here  at  last  we  found  ourselves  in  the  Andes  as  the  imagination  had 
pictured  them, — dry,  mammoth,  treeless,  repulsive,  wholly  infertile 
mountains  piled  irregularly  into  the  blue  heavens  on  every  hand. 
Under  our  feet  the  road  suddenly  began  a buck  and  wing  shuffle,  and 
leaving  it  to  its  vagaries  we  scrambled  and  slid  — particularly  Hays 
in  his  smooth-bottomed  moccasins  — down  toward  the  Juanambu 
river,  to  the  pass  where  General  Narino  fought  one  of  the  great 
battles  of  the  war  of  independence.  Two  hours  beyond,  we  came  out 
on  the  nose  of  a cliff  with  a sheer  fall  of  thousands  of  feet  — which 
we  took  care  not  to  take  — affording  a view  of  the  country  we  had 
crossed  for  days  past,  the  trail  of  forty-eight  hours  before  climbing 
away  into  the  sky  at  what  seemed  but  a rifle  shot  away. 

At  Boesaco  a woman  agreed  to  prepare  food  if  I would  give  her 
an  “ advance  ” sufficient  to  buy  the  necessary  ingredients.  When  Hays 
arrived,  we  sat  down  to  a dinner  so  plentiful  that  we  rose  again  with 
difficulty.  Life  is  like  that  in  the  Andes.  The  traveler  must  feed  to 
bursting  when  the  opportunity  offers,  and  starve  at  times  without 
complaint.  We  had  already  done  a reasonable  day’s  tramping,  but  the 
nearness  of  Pasto  overcame  our  better  judgment.  A few  miles  out, 
a group  of  pastusos,  of  almost  full  Caucasian  blood,  rode  by  me  with 
silent  disdain.  Evidently  they  disapproved  of  our  mode  of  travel. 
Just  beyond,  the  road  broke  up  into  many  faint  paths  across  a meadow, 
the  stony  old  trail  of  colonial  days  toiling  up  the  face  of  the  mountain 
to  the  right.  I drew  an  arrow  in  the  sand  lest  Hays,  lost  in  some 
reverie,  should  fail  to  note  the  shod  feet  by  which  we  tracked  each 
other  so  easily  in  a world  where  all  who  walk  go  barefoot.  A mile  or 
two  across  the  meadow  I fell  in  with  an  excellent  new  highway,  well 
engineered,  that  took  to  scolloping  in  and  out  along  the  flank  of  an 
enormous  range,  with  a steady  rise  that  never  for  an  instant  ceased  as 
long  as  the  day  lasted.  Here  and  there  a clear,  cold  stream  trickled 
from  the  still  unhealed  mountainside  piled  into  the  sky  above  me.  The 
visible  world  was  wholly  uninhabited  now,  with  cold,  bleak  winds 
sweeping  across  the  vast  panorama  of  ranges  below  and  above;  while 
ahead,  great  patches  of  mist  half-concealed  the  dense,  bearded  forests 

IIO 


DOWN  THE  ANDES  TO  QUITO 


through  which  the  road  climbed  doggedly.  In  these  solitary  Berruecos 
ranges  General  Sucre  was  but  one  of  many  who  had  been  murdered  by 
brigands  or  conspirators,  and  every  turn  of  the  lonely  road  offered 
splendid  ambush.  Indeed,  it  seemed  strange  that  Colombia  had  proved 
so  free  from  highway  violence,  with  no  other  policing  outside  the  capi- 
tal than,  in  the  larger  villages,  an  occasional  mild-eyed  youth  in  one 
piece  of  uniform,  carrying  a chain-twister  or  a home-made  “ night- 
stick." 

Toward  nightfall  a horseman  overtook  me.  Six  weeks  on  the  road 
had  left  me  in  excellent  condition,  and  in  spite  of  the  miles  in  my  legs 
his  animal  could  barely  hold  my  pace.  For  a long  time  we  mounted 
almost  side  by  side,  a new  stretch  of  solitary  highway  staring  us  in  the 
face  at  every  turn,  cold  night  settling  down  in  utter  solitude.  It 
had  grown  wholly  dark  when  we  reached  the  summit,  damp  with  the 
breath  of  the  forest,  an  Arctic  wind  sweeping  across  it,  with  dense 
black  night  and  a suggestion  of  vast  mountain  depths  on  all  sides. 
The  silent,  gloomy  pastuso  was  evidently  suspicious  of  my  intentions 
and  refused  to  ride  ahead.  Nor  was  I too  sure  of  him.  The  dislike 
of  having  an  unknown  traveler  behind  me  had  persisted  since  my 
tramp  through  Mexico,  but  there  was  no  other  choice  than  to  take  the 
lead.  On  the  further  side  the  road  was  poorer,  with  a sharp  grade 
and  hundreds  of  fine  chances  to  sprain  an  ankle.  Colombians  do  not 
travel  by  night  when  they  can  avoid  it,  and  we  met  not  a sign  of  life. 
The  stony  road  descended  so  swiftly  that  I had  difficulty  in  judging  its 
pitch  and  a constant  struggle  to  keep  from  falling  on  my  face.  Sud- 
denly, at  a chaos  of  paths,  rocks,  and  jagged  holes,  as  of  some  earth- 
quake, I cross  an  unseen  but  noisy  stream  by  a sagging  log  and, 
leaving  the  cautious  horseman  behind,  saw  him  no  more. 

On  and  on  the  rough  and  broken  world  dropped  before  me,  with 
never  a moment  of  respite  for  my  aching  thighs.  I was  concluding  I 
had  lost  the  way  entirely,  when  suddenly  there  burst  upon  me  all  the 
electric  lights  of  Pasto  — actually  electric  lights,  forty-two  of  them, 
as  I could  count  from  my  point  of  vantage,  each  of  what  would  have 
been  sixteen  candle-power  had  each  had  some  fourteen  candles  to 
help  out.  I slipped  on  my  coat  in  anticipation  of  entering  a hotbed 
of  civilization,  for  was  not  Pasto  the  largest  city  between  Bogota 
and  Quito? 

I have  ever  been  over-hopeful.  A city  it  was,  to  be  sure,  in  the 
South  American  sense,  but  travelers,  other  than  those  of  the  mule- 
driver  class,  come  rarely  to  Pasto,  and  those  who  do  arrive  decorously 

hi 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 

by  day,  and  seek  the  homes  of  friends.  I had  been  given  the  name  of 
the  “ Hotel  Central.”  The  first  passerby  directed  me  to  it,  but  added 
the  information  that  they  no  longer  “ assisted,”  that  is,  gave  meals. 

“ But  they  have  rooms  ? ” 

“ No,  they  never  did  have  rooms.  They  were  only  a hotel.” 

Words  have  strange  meanings  in  the  far  interior  of  South  America. 

All  that  was  left  me  was  the  posada,  an  ancient,  dark,  and  gloomy 
one-story  building  around  a patio,  full  of  the  scent  and  noises  of 
mules  and  horses,  and  of  arrieros  wrapped  in  their  blankets.  Even 
the  corner  policeman  advised  me  to  keep  the  “ room  ” offered  me  and 
be  thankful.  It  was  fortunate  that  Hays  had  not  arrived,  for  both  of 
us  could  scarcely  have  crowded  into  the  damp,  earthy-smelling  dungeon, 
to  say  nothing  of  occupying  the  plank  “ bed.”  Evidently  he  had  found 
lodging  somewhere  along  the  way.  During  the  day  I had  laid  forty- 
two  miles  behind  me,  yet  so  fresh  had  I arrived  that  I went  out  for  a 
stroll  before  retiring  to  pass  a night  almost  as  cold  as  in  Bogota, 
dressed  in  every  rag  I owned,  with  two  adobe  bricks  as  pillow,  and 
as  covering  against  the  bitter  cold  that  crept  in  even  through  the 
closed  door  — the  privilege  of  hugging  myself. 

I had  taken  my  coffee  and  wandered  the  streets  of  Pasto  for  an 
hour  next  morning  when  I suddenly  sighted  Hays,  accompanied  by  a 
ruana-clad  native.  Usually  as  immaculate  as  conditions  permitted, 
he  was  now  unwashed,  unshaven,  bedraggled,  drawn  of  features  and 
generally  disreputable,  with  a sheepish  look  that  turned  to  relief  at 
sight  of  me.  He  had  a sad  story  to  tell.  Lost  in  some  dream,  he 
had  overlooked  my  arrow  in  the  sand  and  taken  the  old  stony  road 
over  the  Berruecos  range.  It  was  a shorter  route  in  miles,  and  had 
the  doubtful  advantage  of  leading  him  past  the  very  spot  at  which 
Sucre  was  assassinated ; but  the  now  abandoned  trail  of  colonial  days 
was  in  such  a condition  that  he  had  several  times  come  near  break- 
ing a leg,  if  not  his  neck.  Limping  at  last  into  town,  late  at  night,  he 
had  wandered  the  streets  for  some  time  in  vain,  when  two  natives 
asked  if  he  was  looking  for  lodging.  Congratulating  himself  on  his 
good  fortune,  he  fell  into  step  with  them.  A square  or  two  further 
on  one  of  the  pair  disclosed  a policeman’s  “ night-stick  ” hanging  from 
his  arm.  Hays  excused  himself  and  turned  away,  only  to  be  halted 
with  the  information  that  the  law  of  Pasto  required  that  any  stranger 
arriving  after  eight  at  night  be  taken  to  the  police  station.  The  ex- 
corporal of  the  Zone,  accustomed  for  years  to  order  his  subordinates 
to  lock  up  other  men,  was  appalled  at  the  notion  of  being  himself 

1 12 


DOWN  THE  ANDES  TO  QUITO 


locked  up.  His  affronted  dignity  favored  the  pair  with  some  of  the 
most  expressive  Castilian  to  be  found  within  the  covers  of  Ramsey. 
All  in  vain.  At  the  station  the  lieutenant,  who  rose  from  a troubled 
sleep  with  a towel  around  his  head,  was  courtesy  itself,  explaining 
that  Pasto  would  not  dream  of  subjecting  so  distinguished  a foreigner 
to  arrest.  But  as  the  night  was  late  and  the  streets  cold,  they  were 
doing  him  the  favor  of  lodging  him,  not  in  jail,  but  in  the  police 
barracks.  Looked  at  in  that  light,  and  at  that  hour,  the  affair  as- 
sumed a new  aspect.  Hays  voiced  his  thanks  and  slipped  from  under 
his  pack.  A policeman  led  him  to  the  squad  room,  gave  him  a reed 
mat  to  spread  on  the  floor  beside  the  score  already  asleep,  and  cov- 
ered him  with  one  of  the  red  and  blue  ruanas  of  Pasto.  On  such 
terms  I would  gladly  have  spent  the  night  under  arrest  myself.  At 
midnight  there  had  rushed  into  the  room  all  the  policemen  on  duty  in 
town.  Each  dragged  his  relief  to  his  feet  and  at  once  dived  into  the 
vacated  “ bed,”  leaving  Pasto  for  a half-hour  at  the  mercy  of  the  law- 
less. At  dawm  the  order  to  muster  was  sounded.  The  policemen 
each  and  all  turned  over  for  another  nap,  and  only  rose  when  the 
querulous  little  chief  of  police  came  to  give  the  order  in  person,  even 
then  after  considerable  argument.  Hays  had  started  to  take  his  leave, 
but  was  called  back  to  give  his  pedigree.  The  government  paper  was 
in  my  hands.  The  chief  apologized  for  the  necessity,  but  put  him  in 
charge  of  the  ruana-clad  detective  until  he  could  examine  the  docu- 
ment in  question. 

We  planned  to  spend  several  days  in  Pasto,  but  our  efforts  to  get 
better  lodgings  did  not  meet  with  rosy  success.  We  were  once  even 
on  the  point  of  renting  a two-story  house  on  a corner  of  the  plaza  — 
only  to  find  that  though  it  had  room  enough  to  accommodate  a score 
of  persons,  it  was  furnished  simply  and  exclusively  with  the  wooden- 
floored  bedsteads  indigenous  to  the  Andes.  Meanwhile,  the  bridal 
chamber  of  the  posada  was  vacated  and  we  fell  heirs  to  it  — at  nine 
cents  a day  each. 

The  capital  of  Colombia’s  southernmost  department,  claiming  a 
population  of  16,000,  sits  in  the  capacious  lap  of  the  extinct  Pasto 
volcano,  seeming,  in  spite  of  its  14,000  feet  elevation,  a mere  hill,  for 
the  city  itself  is  more  lofty  than  Bogota.  By  no  means  so  backward 
and  fanatical  a mountain  town  as  described  by  its  rivals  to  the  north, 
it  proved  the  most  lively  and  progressive  place  we  chanced  upon  be- 
tween the  Cauca  and  Ecuador.  A highway  links  it  with  the  outside 
world  by  way  of  Tuquerres  and  Barbacoas,  thence  by  boat  to  the  island 

113 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


port  of  Tumaco  on  the  Pacific.  Yet  there  remains  much  provincialism 
and  a stout  clinging  to  the  ways  and  the  medieval  faith  of  colonial 
days.  With  few  exceptions  the  entire  population  kneels  in  the  street 
when  any  high  churchman  moves  abroad.  In  one  of  the  many  over- 
grown churches  is  a glorified  letter-box  with  a sign  exhorting  the 
“faithful”  to  write  to  San  Jose,  reputed  to  have  his  dwelling-place 
near  the  town,  requests  for  those  favors  they  wish  granted,  and  en- 
closing something  for  Jose’s  coin-box.  Once  a week  the  letters  are 
removed  by  a monk  and,  the  worldly  offering  having  been  extracted, 
are  burned  before  the  statue  of  the  saint.  Wheeled  traffic,  of  course, 
is  unknown  in  Pasto ; virtually  everything  of  importance  comes  up 
from  the  sea  on  muleback.  The  most  ambitious  native  handicraft  we 
found  was  the  making  of  tiples,  crude  guitars  of  red  cedar  and  white 
pine. 

At  first  sight  Pasto  has  the  aspect  of  a mighty  mart  of  trade.  Every 
street  is  lined  from  suburb  to  suburb  by  the  wide-open  doorways 
of  shallow  shops  crammed  with  wares  incessantly  duplicated.  To  all 
appearances,  there  are  more  sellers  than  buyers.  Pride  in  hidalgo 
blood,  however  diluted,  is  evidently  so  widespread  that  no  one  works 
who  can  in  any  way  avoid  it,  all  preferring  to  sit  behind  a counter  in 
the  hope  of  selling  ten  cents’  worth  of  something  a day  to  earning  as 
many  dollars  in  some  productive  labor  at  the  risk  of  soiling  their 
fingers.  Most  numerous  are  the  food-shops,  run  chiefly  by  women, 
who  find  ample  time  between  clients  to  do  their  housekeeping  in  a 
Colombian  way.  An  inventory  of  one  display,  sloping  from  sidewalk 
to  ceiling,  is  a description  of  all.  Large,  irregular  bricks  of  salt,  pink- 
ish in  color,  and  rectangular  blocks  of  the  muddy-brown  first-product 
of  the  sugar-cane,  form  the  basis  of  every  heap.  Next  in  order  are 
cones  of  half-refined  sugar,  a variety  of  home-made  sweets,  long  slabs 
of  yellow  soap  from  which  is  cut  whatever  amount  the  purchaser 
desires ; baskets  of  small  potatoes,  of  shelled  corn,  and  quinoa.  Then 
there  are  oranges  and  bananas  of  several  varieties,  plantains,  mangoes, 
strings  of  onions,  heaps  of  one,  two,  and  four-cent  loaves  of  wheat 
bread,  or  pan  de  queso , — a mixture  of  flour  and  grated  cheese  — 
the  largest  of  which  barely  attains  the  size  of  a respectable  American 
biscuit.  An  abundance  of  canned  goods,  largely  from  the  United 
States,  invariably  forms  the  top  of  the  pyramid.  These  imported 
wares  seem  to  have  little  sale  among  the  natives,  being  kept  in  stock 
apparently  in  the  fond  hope  of  the  arrival  of  stray  gringos  exuding 
wealth  at  every  pore.  To  the  townsmen,  indeed,  the  prices  are  almost 

1 14 


DOWN  THE  ANDES  TO  QUITO 


prohibitive.  A can  of  “ salmon,”  filled  with  pale  and  ancient  carp  and 
deteriorated  coloring  matter,  cost  65  cents ; a five-cent  box  of  Ameri- 
can crackers  was  valued  at  36  cents  ! “ Tabacos,”  as  the  black  stogie  of 

local  make  and  consumption  is  called,  a few  iron-heavy  cups  and 
saucers,  odds  and  ends  of  gaudy  dishes,  and  small  edibles  and  trinkets, 
fill  in  the  interstices  of  every  display. 

Almost  as  numerous  are  the  hawkers  of  strong  drink,  likewise 
women,  who  fall  back  upon  their  sewing  between  customers.  Compe- 
tition is  livelier  in  this  line,  and  prices  correspondingly  lower.  A bottle 
of  Milwaukee  beer  sold  at  40  cents.  Countless  cloth-shops,  with 
bolts  of  cheap  grade  and  of  every  color  of  the  rainbow  piled  high  in  the 
doorways ; boticas,  or  dingy  little  drugstores  of  breath-taking  prices ; 
and  establishments  offering  everything  that  can  by  any  stretch  of  the 
imagination  be  rated  hardware,  appear  to  be  the  chief  male  pastimes. 
Like  so  many  towns  of  the  Andes,  Pasto  does  not  seem  to  indulge  in 
any  form  of  intellectual  recreation ; unless  the  art  of  conversation, 
so  diligently  practiced,  can  be  rated  such.  There  is  not  a bookstore  in 
town.  In  a few  shops  are  piled,  among  other  wares,  stacks  of  religious 
volumes  and  Catholic  propaganda,  including  school-books  dealing 
chiefly  with  the  lives  of  the  saints ; but  nothing  more.  It  is  a “ change- 
less ” town.  There  were  once  plenty  of  medios  and,  earlier  still, 
cuartillos,  we  were  informed;  but  these  small  pieces  had  all  been  given 
in  alms  to  the  Church.  The  smallest  coin  still  in  circulation  is  the 
real  — the  word  centavo  disappears  at  the  department  boundary.  He 
who  buys  a lump  of  sugar  or  a salt  rock  must  take  home  a needle,  an 
onion,  or  a banana  in  change.  At  the  post-office,  where  the  real  is 
accepted  at  something  less  than  in  the  public  markets,  the  purchaser 
may  take  his  change  in  stamps,  though  the  pastuso  custom  seems  to  be 
to  give  it  to  the  clerk  as  a “ tip.” 

High  as  it  lies,  Pasto  is  but  two  days  muleback  from  the  great 
montana,  the  hot  lands  and  the  beginning  of  the  Amazon  system. 
Just  out  beyond  the  cold  mountain  lakes  of  La  Laguna  comes  a quick 
descent  to  Caqueta  and  the  great  jungles  of  eastern  South  America. 
Hence  we  saw  in  the  streets  of  Pasto  not  merely  the  now  familiar 
“ civilized  ” Indian  of  the  highlands,  plodding  behind  his  no  more 
stolid  bulls  laden  with  the  produce  of  his  chacras,  but  also  no  small 
number  of  “ wild  men  ” from  the  wilderness.  These  have  a free, 
happy,  independent  air,  in  marked  contrast  to  the  manner  of  the  dismal 
mountain  Indian  ; none  of  the  cautious,  laborious,  canny  attitude  toward 
life  of  those  subject  to  the  environment  of  high  altitudes.  They  ap- 

115 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


pear  to  hold  the  domesticated  Indian  in  great  scorn,  and  mix  far  more 
freely  with  the  other  classes  of  the  population.  Dressed  in  what 
could  easily  be  mistaken  for  the  running  pants  of  an  athlete,  their 
marvelously  developed  bronzed  legs  are  bare  in  any  weather.  A light 
ruana  covers  their  shoulders.  A few  wear  a gray  wool  skullcap ; most 
of  them  only  their  matted,  thick,  black  hair,  cut  short  across  the  neck 
in  “ Dutch  doll  ” fashion.  There  were  always  several  women  in  each 
group,  but  one  must  look  sharply  to  make  sure  of  the  sex,  dressed 
identically  like  their  male  companions,  bare  legs,  hair-cut,  and  all. 

We  took  leave  of  Pasto  four  days  after  our  arrival.  That  night  — 
Hays  having  his  usual  luck  in  winning  the  single  wooden  bench  — I 
slept  on  a hairy  cowhide  on  the  earth  floor  of  an  Indian  hut  beside  the 
Ancasmayu,  or  Blue  River,  about  the  northern  limit  of  the  Inca 
Empire  at  its  height ; and  all  night  long  guinea-pigs  kept  running  over 
me,  squeaking  their  incessant  treble  grunt,  gnawing  at  anything  that 
seemed  edible.  Besides  the  llama,  and,  perhaps,  the  allco,  a mute  dog 
that  is  said  to  have  been  exterminated  by  the  hungry  Conquistadores, 
the  only  domestic  animal  of  the  Andes  at  the  time  of  the  Conquest  were 
these  lively  little  rodents  so  absurdly  misnamed  in  English,  since  they 
are  neither  of  the  porcine  family  nor  known  in  Guinea,  being  in- 
digenous to  South  America.  The  Spaniards  more  reasonably  called 
them  concjos  de  India — “ rabbits  of  India.”  To  the  natives  they  were, 
and  still  are,  known  as  cui  (kwee),  the  origin  of  which  term  is  evident 
to  anyone  who  has  listened  to  their  grunting  squeak  through  an  endless 
Andean  night.  In  pre-Conquest  days  — the  llama  being  too  valuable 
an  animal  to  eat,  even  had  the  herds  not  been  the  personal  property 
of  the  Inca  — the  cui  probably  constituted  the  only  meat,  except  wild 
game,  of  the  Indian’s  scanty  diet.  To-day  every  hut  in  the  Andean 
highlands  is  overrun  by  them.  The  gente  decente  facetiously  assert 
that  the  Indians  keep  them  for  two  purposes, — to  eat,  and  as  a means 
of  learning  the  art  of  multiplication. 

Next  day  the  road  was  all  but  impassable,  or  we  should  have  reached 
Ipiales  on  the  frontier  that  evening.  Not  that  it  was  a bad  road,  as 
roads  go  in  the  Andes,  but  rain  had  fallen  most  of  the  night,  and  we 
skated  down  each  slope  in  constant  expectation  of  a mud-bath,  to  claw 
our  way  almost  on  hands  and  knees  to  the  succeeding  summit.  Once 
we  tobogganed  thousands  of  feet  clear  through  a town  in  which  we 
had  planned  to  eat,  literally  unable  to  stop  until  we  brought  up  against 
a luckily  placed  boulder  on  the  edge  of  a stream  in  a roaring  gorge  far 
below. 


116 


DOWN  THE  ANDES  TO  QUITO 


At  lies,  where  Hays,  hurrying  on  in  quest  of  cigarettes  which  he 
detested  only  next  to  smokelessness,  for  once  arrived  before  me,  1 
found  dinner  already  preparing  and  my  companion  burdened  with  the 
key  to  a lodging.  A tinsmith  had  left  off  work  for  the  afternoon  that 
we  might  have  undisputed  possession  of  his  shop,  stocked  with  a few 
ordinary  articles  of  tinware,  but  given  over  chiefly  to  the  fabrication 
of  tin  saints.  Strange  to  say,  once  they  had  been  sanctified  by  the 
prifest,  the  results  of  his  labors  were  as  sacred  to  the  tinsmith  as  to 
his  fellow-townsmen.  lies  was  just  finishing  a huge  new  church.  The 
only  implements  of  the  workmen  were  shovels,  for  the  whole  building 
was  of  native  mud,  even  to  the  roof-tiles.  The  entire  Indian  popula- 
tion, male  and  female,  impressed  into  service  by  the  padre,  trotted  in 
constant  procession  from  the  spot  where  the  clay  was  mixed  with 
mountain  grass  and  trampled  with  bare  feet,  carrying  on  their  heads 
tiles  filled  with  the  material,  the  women  bearing  also  their  babies  slung 
on  their  backs.  The  free  labor  system  of  the  Incas,  inherited  by  the 
Conquistadores,  is  still  in  vogue  in  the  isolated  towns  of  the  Andes, 
the  taskmaster  of  to-day  being  the  village  cura. 

As  we  neared  the  frontier,  population  grew  less  and  less  frequent, 
and  there  were  long  stretches  without  an  inhabitant.  In  the  after- 
noon we  turned  aside  from  the  “ royal  highway  ” to  visit  the  “ Vir- 
gen  de  las  Lajas,”  the  most  famous  shrine  in  Colombia.  To  it  come 
pilgrims  from  all  the  Republic,  from  Ecuador  and  even  further  afield, 
to  be  cured  of  their  ills.  On  the  way  down  to  it  we  fell  in  with  an 
old  man  driving  an  ass,  and  heard  the  simple  story  of  the  founding  of 
the  sacred  city.  Centuries  ago  the  Virgin  had  appeared  here  and 
given  a small  child  a statue  of  herself  — “ descended  straight  from 
heaven,  because  it  has  a real  flesh-and-blood  face  that  bleeds  if  it  is 
pricked,  or  if  hair  is  pulled  out.”  Then  she  had  ordered  the  Bishop 
of  Riobamba  to  build  a chapel  in  the  living  rock  of  the  mountain  on 
the  site  of  the  apparition.  Our  informant  was  vociferous  in  his  asser- 
tion that  the  Virgin  daily  cured  victims  of  lameness,  blindness,  barren- 
ness, and  a hundred  other  ailments ; but  he  offered  no  explanation  of 
the  fact  that  though  he  had  lived  in  Las  Lajas  all  his  life,  he  was  almost 
sightless  from  ophthalmia. 

The  village,  stacked  up  the  sheer  wall  of  a gorge  in  the  far  depths 
of  which  roared  a small  but  powerful  stream,  had  about  it  that  some- 
thing peculiar  to  all  “ sacred  ” cities, — an  intangible  hint  of  unknown 
danger,  perhaps  from  fanaticism,  of  ignorance,  something  of  the  sad- 
ness that  comes  upon  the  traveler  at  such  evidences  of  the  gullibility  of 

ii  7 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


mankind.  Several  “ posadas  de  peligrinos,”  crude  copies  of  the 
hospices  of  Jerusalem,  and  many  little  shops  and  stalls  like  those  of 
Puree,  town  of  the  Juggernaut,  furnish  pilgrims  with  lodgings,  food, 
blessed  trinkets,  and  tons  of  English  candles  to  burn  before  the  mirac- 
ulous image.  Ragged  boys  left  off  their  top-spinning  to  beg  “ una 
limosnita  — a little  alms  for  the  Virgin,”  as  we  descended  through 
the  town  and  went  down  by  the  sharpest  zigzags  to  the  white,  four- 
story  temple  with  its  twin  towers,  hanging  on  the  edge  of  the  rocky 
gorge  like  encrusted  foam  of  the  waterfall  that  pitched  into  it. 
Though  they  make  long  journeys  to  implore  her  favor,  the  pilgrims 
have  not  reverence  enough  for  their  Virgin  to  reform  their  unspeak- 
able personal  habits,  and  every  story  of  the  holy  edifice  was  an  of- 
fence to  eyes  and  nose.  The  worker  of  miracles  was  the  usual  placid 
faced  doll  in  rich  vestments  and  gleaming  jewels  — or  more  likely 
paste  imitations  of  those  which  the  monks  keep  safely  locked  away  in 
their  vaults  — behind  a thick  glass  screen  against  which  sad-eyed  In- 
dians flattened  their  noses  in  supplication. 

The  rolling  hills  of  Ecuador  lay  close  before  us  when  we  strode  into 
Ipiales,  the  last  town  of  Colombia  and  the  coldest  place  we  had  known 
since  our  last  northern  winter.  At  this  rate  the  equator  would  prove 
ice-bound.  The  place  was  said  to  have  much  commerce  with  the 
neighboring  Republic,  but  the  only  signs  we  saw  of  it  were  a few  troops 
of  shivering  donkeys.  A mere  five  miles  separates  Ipiales  from  the 
frontier,  and  we  had  soon  left  behind  the  land  of  “ Liberty  and 
Order  ” and  entered  that  of  the  equator.  The  road,  crawling  dizzily 
along  the  face  of  a death-dealing  precipice,  descends  to  a collection  of 
huts  called  Rumichaca  — Quichua  for  “ rock  bridge,”  which  it  is,  in- 
deed, for  the  boundary  river,  Carchi,  races  under  a huge  natural  arch 
across  which  the  camino  real  passes  without  a tremor.  To  our  sur- 
prise, there  were  no  frontier  formalities  whatever.  Ecuador  was  not 
even  represented ; the  two  Colombian  customs  officials,  diffident,  slow- 
witted,  but  kindly  pastusos,  asserted  that  no  duties  were  collected  on 
goods  passing  between  the  two  countries,  unless  they  were  of  foreign 
origin.  Their  task  was  merely  to  keep  account  of  whatever  passed 
the  boundary ; for  what  purpose  was  not  apparent,  unless  it  was  to  pro- 
vide a sinecure  for  political  henchmen. 

An  hour  later  we  were  surprising  the  Ecuadorians  lolling  about 
the  bare,  sanded  plaza  of  Tulcan.  Only  a lone  telegraph  wire  had 
followed  us  over  the  frontier,  yet  the  two  countries  blended  into  each 
other  so  completely  that  an  uninformed  traveler  would  not  have 

118 


DOWN  THE  ANDES  TO  QUITO 


guessed  that  he  had  crossed  an  international  boundary.  In  the  cuartel 
were  housed  a half-hundred  soldiers,  rather  insolent  fellows  despite 
their  Indian  blood,  their  gaily  colored  ruanas  giving  Tulcan  a needed 
touch  of  color,  engaged  in  the  rather  passive  occupation  of  protecting 
their  little  wedge-shaped  country  from  the  pressure  of  the  larger  one 
above.  By  the  time  I had  lessened  our  burden  of  silver  by  changing 
it  into  bills  of  the  country,  Hays  had  fallen  in  with  the  jefe 
politico,  the  commander-in-chief  of  all  the  canton,  who  bade  us  make 
our  home  in  his  bachelor  parlor  as  long  as  we  chose  to  remain.  The 
room  was  the  most  magnificent  we  had  seen  since  Bogota,  with  long, 
solemn  rows  of  upholstered  chairs,  straight-backed  and  dignified, 
framed  family  portraits  that  would  not  have  gladdened  an  artist’s 
heart,  and  two  long  but  sadly  narrow  sofas  covered  with  a horse-hair 
cloth  that,  after  weeks  on  the  planks  and  trodden-earth  floors  of  Colom- 
bia, seemed  elusive  luxury  personified.  The  jefe  bade  us  keep  our 
hats  on,  and  left  us  with  the  Quito  newspapers  of  a week  back,  our  first 
touch  with  the  outside  world  in  some  time. 

I suspected  that  Tulcan’s  chief  dignitary  had  not  treated  us  so  regally 
out  of  mere  kindness  of  heart ; and  the  suspicion  was  duly  verified. 
We  had  stretched  out  on  our  elusive  couches,  and  Hays  was  already 
asleep  — or  feigning  it  most  successfully, — when  the  jefe  arrived  from 
a merry  evening  with  his  aids  and  drew  me  into  a conversation  that 
promised  to  have  no  end.  Under  the  guise  of  giving  me  information, 
he  set  himself  to  finding  out,  entirely  by  indirection,  what  might  be 
our  real  motive  in  entering  Ecuador  by  the  back  door,  unannounced. 
Though  he  never  for  a moment  suggested  his  suspicions  openly,  it  was 
a late  hour  before  he  gave  any  evidence  of  being  convinced  that  there 
was  nothing  sinister  and  perilous  to  the  welfare  of  his  country  be- 
hind our  simple  story.  Then  he  grew  confidential  and  announced  that, 
as  men  who  had,  and  might  again  be,  wandering  in  foreign  parts,  we 
were  sure  to  run  across  two  miscreants  on  whom  he  would  like  to 
lay  his  hands.  One  was  Deciderio  Vanquathem  of  Belgium,  de- 
scribed as  a ferrotype  photographer  and  a sleight-of-hand  performer 
of  no  mean  ability.  He  had  married  a cousin  of  the  jefe  and  bor- 
rowed a thousand  sucres  of  our  host  to  start  a magic-lantern  show, 
only  to  disappear  a week  later  leaving  his  wife,  but  not  the  thousand 
sucres,  behind.  The  impression  left  by  the  jefe’s  complaint  was  that 
if  he  had  reversed  the  process,  there  would  have  been  no  hard  feel- 
ing. We  were  asked  to  keep  an  eye  out  also  for  one  Francisco  Fabra, 
boasting  himself  a Frenchman,  who  had  written  from  “ Ashcord  ” 

119 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


(Akron?),  Ohio,  proposing  marriage  to  one  of  the  jefe’s  sisters,  but 
who  had  dropped  out  of  sight  upon  receipt  of  her  photograph.  “ No 
se  debe  burlarse  asi  de  las  mujeres  — no  man  should  play  such  jests 
on  a woman,”  cried  the  jefe  fiercely. 

Had  we  not  fallen  in  next  morning  with  two  Indians  likewise  bound, 
I am  not  sure  we  should  ever  have  reached  San  Gabriel.  We  were 
soon  engaged  in  an  utterly  unpeopled  series  of  paramos,  lofty  mountain- 
tops  swept  by  icy  winds,  covered  only  with  tufts  of  yellow  bunch- 
grass  and  myriads  of  “ frailejones,”  clumps  of  mullen-like  leaves  on  a 
palm-like  stem  from  six  inches  to  two  feet  high,  that  peered  at  us 
through  the  mist  like  shivering,  diffident  mountain  children.  Our 
companions  assured  us  that  the  plant  was  thus  known  because  of  its 
resemblance  to  a priest  in  his  pulpit,  and  that  the  leaves  were  highly 
efficacious  against  headache.  There  was  also  the  achupalla,  a kind  of 
wild  pineapple  with  sword-like  leaves  that  gave  it  the  appearance  of 
that  form  of  cactus  known  as  “ Spanish  bayonet,”  the  heart  of  which, 
resembling  a large  onion  or  a small  cabbage,  is  sold  as  food  in  the 
markets  of  the  region.  Then,  for  a long  way,  the  trail  led  through  a 
moss-grown  forest  reeking  in  mud,  which  we  could  only  pass  by  jump- 
ing from  bog  to  bog  and  clinging  to  trees  along  the  way. 

San  Gabriel  sits  conspicuously,  and  apparently  unashamed,  on  the 
summit  of  an  Andean  knoll,  its  streets  falling  away  into  the  valley  on 
every  side.  In  the  outskirts  we  came  upon  a game  new  to  both  of  us. 
In  the  irregular  field  that  formed  the  plaza  before  a bulking  mud  church, 
a half-hundred  barefoot  Indian  men  and  boys,  each  in  a ruana  of  dis- 
tinctive gay  color  reaching  to  the  knees,  were  pursuing  a sphere  about 
half  the  size  of  a football.  Each  player  had  bound  on  his  right  hand, 
like  the  cesta  of  the  Spanish  pelota  player,  a large,  round  instrument 
of  rawhide,  of  the  form  of  a flat  snare-drum  or  a double-headed  banjo. 
The  rules  of  the  game  were  evidently  similar  to  handball  or  tennis. 
Hoping  for  some  suggestion  of  aboriginal  originality,  I asked  a player 
what  the  game  was  called. 

“Pelota  (ball),  senor,”  he  answered  laconically. 

I might  almost  have  guessed  as  much. 

“And  that?”  I persisted,  pointing  to  the  banjo-shaped  instrument. 

“ Guante  (glove),”  he  replied. 

A really  bright  man  might  have  guessed  that,  also.  Evidently  the 
tongue  of  the  Incas  had  left  little  trace  in  San  Gabriel.  Suddenly  the 
bell  of  the  whitewashed  church  whanged.  The  players  piled  their 
“ gloves  ” hastily  in  the  form  of  a cross,  and  every  living  person  in  the 

120 


Quito  lies  in  a pocket  of  the  Andes,  at  the  foot  of  Pichincha,  more  than  10,000  feet  above  sea  level 


DOWN  THE  ANDES  TO  QUITO 


plaza,  male  or  female,  snatched  off  their  hats  and  poured  into  the 
place  of  worship,  from  which  arose  some  weird  species  of  music  as  we 
pushed  on  into  the  town. 

A letter  from  the  jefe  of  Tulcan  gave  us  the  entree  to  the  parlor  of 
one  of  his  relatives.  The  fortnightly  mail  had  just  arrived,  and  Don 
Manuel  was  dictating  letters  to  his  daughter,  who  wrote  slowly  and 
painfully  in  a schoolgirl  hand,  dipping  an  ancient  steel  pen  into  a 
medieval  inkwell  between  each  word.  When  we  returned  at  dark 
from  a dingy  little  shop  in  which  supper  consisted  chiefly  of  quimbolos, 
— a kind  of  corn  pudding  wrapped  in  cornhusks  — we  found  Don 
Manuel,  his  wife,  and  four  daughters  all  gathered  in  a family  con- 
ference over  the  letter,  each  offering  suggestions,  not  as  to  its  subject 
matter,  but  on  the  dotting  of  the  “ i’s  ” and  the  crossing  of  the 
“ t’s,”  a controversy  which  raged  long  and  vociferously.  Then  there 
came  marching  into  the  room  a huge  mattress  under  which,  on  close 
inspection,  we  made  out  the  feet  of  an  Indian  boy,  and  the  family  an- 
nounced that  they  were  going  to  visit  a pariente  — a polite  subterfuge 
to  withdraw  and  leave  us  free  to  go  to  bed.  The  parlor  was  typical  of 
the  “ best  room  ” of  well-to-do  rural  South  Americans.  A forest  of 
chairs  in  shrouds  and  a chaos  of  gaudy  bric-a-brac  cluttered  a chamber 
musty  with  little  use.  On  the  walls  were  framed  portraits  of  the 
pudgy  family  ancestors  back  to  the  days  of  ruffles  and  powdered  wigs, 
all  draped  with  mourning  crepe.  The  family  library  consisted  of 
barely  a half  dozen  books,  all  of  the  general  style  of  Tomas  a Kempis’ 
“ Imitacion  de  Cristo,”  except  for  a copy  of  an  agricultural  journal  in 
Spanish,  published  in  Buffalo. 

There  are  three  routes  from  San  Gabriel  to  Ibarra.  To  our  surprise, 
we  learned  that  all  of  them,  far  from  following  the  high  plateau,  de- 
scended again  into  the  hot  country,  for  the  valley  of  the  Chota  cuts  a 
mighty  slash  entirely  across  Ecuador  a bit  north  of  the  Imbabura  vol- 
cano. The  Indians  told  us  the  road  was  pedroso.  It  was  the  most 
exact  information  we  ever  had  from  men  of  their  race.  Anything 
more  stony  would  be  difficult  to  imagine.  During  all  the  afternoon 
there  was  not  a moment  in  which  we  were  not  descending  swiftly,  our 
thigh  muscles  set  with  the  tautness  of  brakerods,  by  an  ever  more 
stone-strewn  road  that  curved  in  and  out  along  the  flanks  of  a barren 
range,  forming  loops  as  perfect  as  the  written  “ m ” of  an  expert  in  pen- 
manship ; on  our  left  an  enormous  gash  in  the  earth,  dreary,  desert- 
brown,  with  no  other  vegetation  than  the  cactus  — strangely  enough 
called  “ mejico  ” in  this  region, — on  our  right,  so  close  it  all  but  grazed 

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VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


our  elbows,  the  tawny,  shale  mountainside,  seeming  to  rise  and  grow 
as  we  descended.  Where  the  cold  winds  of  the  highlands  turned  tepid, 
Indians  disappeared.  For  a long  space  there  was  no  sign  of  man. 
With  every  turn  of  the  road  the  heat  grew  more  tropical.  A green 
spot  appeared  almost  directly  beneath  us,  hazy  as  a crumpled  green 
rag  with  an  indistinct  light  shining  behind  it.  Then  two  negroes 
passed,  the  first  we  had  seen  since  leaving  the  Cauca.  The  road 
pitched  headlong  down  a slope,  donkeys  and  more  negroes  appeared, 
and  the  green  patch  developed  into  fields  of  sugarcane.  Beyond  them, 
by  a wooden-roofed  bridge,  we  crossed  the  Chota  river  and  found 
ourselves  at  sunset  in  the  “ Caserio  de  la  Chota.” 

Tropical  huts  of  reeds  and  thatch,  quite  unlike  the  thick-walled 
adobe  dwellings  of  the  highlands,  even  in  form,  lay  scattered  along 
the  further  bank.  The  entire  population  was  jet  black  in  color;  the 
life  of  the  place  as  different  from  the  plateau  above  as  if  we  had 
suddenly  been  transported  to  another  continent.  Boisterous  laughter 
broke  often  on  the  thickening  dusk ; above  the  chattering  tongues 
resounded  frequently  the  screams  of  an  exploded  jest  or  a sudden 
quarrel.  A piccaninny  bawled  lustily,  startling  us  into  the  realization 
that  we  had  never  yet  heard  an  Indian  baby  cry.  The  insolence  of 
these  descendants  of  the  slaves  once  imported  in  large  numbers  for 
the  sugar  plantations  of  Ecuador,  who  in  the  half  century  since  the 
abolition  of  slavery  had  drifted  into  this  tropical  valley  to  bask  in  the 
sun,  was  in  striking  contrast  to  the  obsequiousness  of  the  Andean 
Indian. 

Beside  the  two  rows  of  straw  and  reed  shacks  of  the  negroes  stood 
a government  building  of  stone  and  mud,  one  end  of  which  was  the 
telegraph  office.  In  it  the  operator,  who  had  left  two  days  before  to 
“ visit  some  relatives  for  a few  hours,”  had  locked  two  kids  that 
bleated  incessantly.  The  open  portion  of  the  building  was  a shambles. 
Thirty-two  miles  from  the  top  to  the  bottom  of  the  Andes  had  left 
our  feet  no  fit  standing-place,  even  after  soaking  them  in  the  Chota; 
yet  we  hesitated  long  before  attempting  to  clear  a space  to  lie  down. 
Luckily,  I still  had  a candle-end  in  my  pack.  In  a far  corner  some 
energetic  traveler  had  built  a cot  of  reeds  laid  across  two  sticks,  but  it 
had  long  since  rotted  to  uselessness.  Rumor  had  it  that  the  negroes 
of  Chota  were  skilled  assassins,  and  the  demeanor  of  the  hamlet  was 
by  no  means  reassuring.  We  laid  our  weapons  beside  us  on  the  stone 
floor,  but  dared  not  close  the  door  for  feai  of  drowning  in  our  own 
sweat.  All  the  night  through  I woke  frequently  with  the  sensation 

122 


DOWN  THE  ANDES  TO  QUITO 


of  some  one  creeping  in  upon  us,  but  dawn  broke  without  any  defi- 
nite proof  that  the  peril  had  been  anything  worse  than  the  offspring 
of  an  overheated  imagination. 

It  would  be  task  enough  to  climb  from  Chota  to  Ibarra  on  the 
strength  of  a hearty  meal;  to  make  it  from  a lazy  negro  village,  where 
- not  even  a swallow  of  coffee  was  to  be  had,  approached  torture. 
Hour  after  hour  we  toiled  upward  through  a choking  desert  of  sand 
and  broken  stone,  pitched  at  the  angle  of  a steep  stairway.  There  runs 
a story  of  the  Chota,  suggestive  of  the  barrier  it  presents  to  modern 
progress.  Archer  Harman,  the  American  who  lifted  the  railway  of 
Guayaquil  to  the  plains  of  Quito,  strolling  along  the  streets  of  the 
Ecuadorian  capital  one  day,  chanced  to  meet  M , one  of  his  Amer- 

ican engineers. 

“ M ,”  he  said,  shifting  his  cigar  to  the  other  cheek,  “ get  out 

of  here  to-morrow  morning  and  see  what  the  chances  are  for  a railroad 
to  Bogota.” 

The  engineer  sallied  forth  next  day  on  muleback,  with  such  equip- 
ment or  lack  thereof  as  can  be  had  in  Quito  in  a hurry.  Three  months 
later  he  rode  back  into  the  city  of  the  equator. 

“ Well,  you  ’re  back,  eh  ? ” said  his  chief.  “ What ’d  it  cost  us  to  run 
her  through  the  Chota  valley?  ” 

“ About  seventy  miles  of  6%  grade  in  shale,”  replied  the  engineer. 

‘‘  Hum ! ” said  Harman,  “ There  won’t  be  any  railroad  to  Bogota.” 

Which  is  one  of  the  many  reasons  why  the  nebulous  “ Pan-American 
Railway  ” still  exists  only  in  the  minds  of  inexperienced  dreamers. 

Hours  up,  we  began  to  pass  groups  of  meek,  well-built  Indians,  easily 
distinguishable  by  their  costume  from  the  tribes  to  the  north.  They 
spoke  a guttural  yet  sibilant  language  that  could  be  none  other  than 
Quichua,  the  ancient  tongue  of  the  Incas,  and  I took  occasion  to  test 
the  vocabulary  we  had  gleaned,  by  putting  an  unnecessary  question : 

“ May  pi  nan  Ibarrata?  ” 

To  which  the  oldest  of  the  group  replied  at  once  in  fluent,  though 
accented  Spanish,  without  the  shadow  of  a smile: 

“ Si,  senor,  this  is  the  road  to  Ibarra ; derechito  — straight  ahead.’’ 

Before  noon  we  were  sharing  a gallon  of  chicha  at  the  top  of  the 
range,  several  world-famous  volcanoes  thrusting  their  white  heads 
through  the  clouds  about  us.  Ibarra  and  her  fertile  green  slopes  were 
plainly  visible ; a dozen  villages  dotted  the  far-reaching  landscape,  and 
the  two  roads  to  Quito  wound  away  over  the  opposite  flanks  of  cloud- 
capped  Imbabura,  towering  into  the  sky  beyond  and  cutting  off  half  the 

123 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


southern  horizon.  Below  us  spread  the  famous  Yaguarcocha,  the 
“ Lake  of  Blood.”  At  the  height  of  his  power  Huayna  Ccapac,  thir- 
teenth Inca,  had  pushed  his  conquests  over  the  equator,  when  the  Car- 
anquis,  a warlike  tribe  of  the  valley  before  us,  revolted.  The  army 
sent  against  them  exterminated  the  Caranqui  warriors  and  threw  their 
bodies  into  the  lake,  “ turning  its  waters  blood-red,”  according  to  the 
legend,  and  giving  it  the  name  it  bears  to  this  day.  Its  shores  were 
white  with  encrusted  salt  and,  like  so  many  lakes  of  the  Andean  high- 
lands, so  completely  surrounded  by  reedy  swamps  that  we  were  forced 
to  abandon  the  swim  we  had  promised  ourselves  before  entering  the 
principal  city  of  Ecuador  north  of  the  capital. 

Ibarra  is  a still  and  dignified  old  town  of  some  12,000  inhabitants, 
founded  in  1606  under  the  Spanish  viceroy  from  whom  it  took  its 
name,  as  a residence  for  the  white  men  of  the  region  between  Pasto 
and  Quito,  on  the  site  of  the  old  Indian  village  of  Caranqui.  In  spite 
of  the  extreme  fertility  of  the  surrounding  valley  and  its  peerless 
climate,  many  of  its  houses  stood  empty,  and  several  buildings  of 
colonial  days  were  still  the  ruins  the  great  earthquake  of  many  years 
ago  had  left  them.  The  keeper  of  the  little  eating-house  that  actually 
and  publicly  announced  itself,  abandoned  to  us  her  own  quarters, 
densely  furnished  with  photographs,  frail  chairs,  tables,  sofas,  cane 
lounge,  and  an  immense  canopied  bed,  to  say  nothing  of  the  extraor- 
dinary luxury  of  a newspaper  only  two  days  old.  To  offset  the 
pleasure  of  the  first  real  bed  in  weeks,  however,  the  town  kept  us 
awake  most  of  the  night  with  a local  fiesta.  We  had  been  so  lacking 
in  foresight  as  to  arrive  on  the  day  sacred  to  the  “ Virgen  de  la 
Merced.”  The  celebration  began  early  in  the  afternoon.  An  endless 
train  of  Indians  in  a bedlam  of  colors  trooped  across  the  town  under 
great  bundles  of  dry  brush  gathered  far  away  in  the  hills,  a haughty 
chief  on  horseback  riding  up  and  down  the  line  giving  his  orders  in 
sputtering  Quichua.  Men,  women,  and  children  deposited  their  loads 
on  the  bare  plaza  before  a weather-tarnished  old  church,  and  ambled 
away  for  more.  Five  immense  heaps  had  been  laid  out  in  the  form 
of  a cross  when  a priest  sallied  forth  to  sprinkle  them  with  holy  water. 
In  the  thickening  dusk  the  entire  town  gathered  amid  a deafening  din 
of  battered  church  bells,  the  explosion  of  thousands  of  home-made  fire- 
works and  “ cannon  crackers,”  the  blare  of  a tireless  band,  and  the 
howling  of  the  populace  and  its  swarming  curs.  The  brush  cross  was 
lighted  by  a priest  in  rich  vestments,  and  a pandemonium  that  may  have 
been  pleasing  to  the  sleepless  Virgin  raged  the  whole  night  through. 

124 


DOWN  THE  ANDES  TO  QUITO 


The  driftwood  of  the  festival,  in  the  form  of  chicha  victims  sprawled 
on  their  backs  in  streets  and  gutters,  littered  the  town  when  we  set  out 
to  climb  to  the  frozen  equator  at  Cayambe.  A wide  highway  strode  up 
through  the  Indian  town  of  Caranqui,  birthplace  of  Atahuallpa,  best 
loved  son  of  Huayna  Ccapac  and  of  Paccha,  daughter  of  the  conquered 
Scyri  who  once  ruled  the  territory  of  the  Quitus,  and  away  due  south- 
ward over  the  left  shoulder  of  Imbabura.  For  the  first  miles  it  was 
so  crowded  with  Indians  in  crude  red  blankets,  heavy,  gray  felt  hats, 
and  bare  legs,  that  it  seemed  the  migration  of  some  tribe  from  an- 
other world.  All  sidestepped  like  Hindu  coolies  and  even  the  women 
touched  their  hats  to  us  as  they  passed,  greeting  us  sometimes  in 
Spanish,  but  more  often  in  Quichua.  To  the  west  rose  the  snow-topped 
peak  of  Cotacache,  sharp  as  a dog’s  tooth,  and  the  view  of  Ibarra  and 
her  fertile  valley  opened  up  below  and  behind  us  like  an  unfolding  map. 
Then  a ridge  wiped  out  town  and  jogging  Indians,  and  left  us  only 
the  gaunt,  spreading  mountain  world  to  look  upon. 

Thirty  miles  lay  behind  us  when  we  entered  Cayambe,  a drowsy, 
tumble-down  place  of  no  great  size,  the  chill  of  the  blue  ice-fields  cap- 
ping the  great  volcano  of  the  same  name  that  bulks  into  the  heavens 
close  beside  it,  sweeping  through  the  dreary  streets  unhampered.  Next 
day  a long  and  tiresome  eight  leagues  led  across  a desolate  and  parched 
country,  fissured  by  enormous  earthquake  cracks.  But  for  the  dis- 
covery of  a new  drink, — guarango,  of  unknown  concoction  — we 
might  have  stumbled  across  the  sand-blown  equator  in  far  worse  state 
than  those  who  first  pass  it  within  the  realms  of  Father  Neptune.  A 
drought  had  fallen  upon  the  region  so  long  since  that  even  the  cactus 
had  given  up  in  despair.  All  day  long  Cayambe  stood  forth  clear 
and  blue  over  our  left  shoulders,  and  far  off  to  the  hazy  southwest 
the  horizon  was  walled  by  a vast  range,  the  highest  point  of  which 
was  evidently  Pichincha,  at  the  foot  of  which  lay  the  end  of  our  pres- 
ent journey. 

With  our  goal  so  near  at  hand,  we  found  it  difficult  to  hold  our- 
selves overnight  in  the  semi-tropical  oasis  of  Guayllabamba,  the  sandy 
streets  of  which  were  half  paved  with  the  stones  of  alligator  pears. 
By  daylight  we  had  descended  to  the  river  and  begun  the  unbroken 
climb  of  more  than  5000  feet  to  the  top  of  the  succeeding  range.  A 
wide  highway  now  led  due  west  between  cactus  hedges  through  a coun- 
try so  desert  dry  that  both  stock  and  people  seemed  to  be  choking ; and 
the  fear  came  upon  us  that  Quito,  too,  would  be  suffering  such  a 
famine  of  thirst  that  our  plan  to  take  up  temporary  residence  there 

125 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


would  turn  to  disappointment.  Another  steep,  tongue-parching  climb 
brought  to  view  all  Pichincha  and  its  surrounding  world,  yet  nowhere 
was  there  any  sign  of  Quito.  The  highway  swung  south,  rising  and 
falling  gently  here  and  there  between  dry  fields  fenced  with  cactus  or 
mud  walls,  a town  tucked  away  in  the  wrinkle  of  the  range  beside  us. 
In  a shelter  at  the  roadside  an  Indian  woman,  selling  steaming  soup  with 
a bit  of  meat  and  tiny  potatoes  in  it,  served  us  in  a single  earthenware 
plate  with  wooden  spoons  as  impassively  as  she  did  her  own  people. 
Further  on,  groups  of  aborigines  were  burning  off,  over  brush  fires,  the 
bristles  of  slaughtered  pigs  that  lay  in  batches  of  a half-dozen,  split 
open,  at  the  road  edge.  A carriage  passed,  the  first  we  had  seen  in 
weeks ; then  an  automobile ; a man  in  “ European  ” clothes,  wearing 
shoes,  yet  actually  walking;  a clean  child  of  well-to-do  parents.  A 
motley  crowd,  chiefly  Indians  in  gaudy  ponchos,  came  and  went ; large 
buildings  grew  up  on  either  side  of  us ; the  highway,  passing  through 
green  groves  of  eucalyptus  pungent  with  the  smell  of  “ Australian 
gum,”  took  on  the  name  of  “ 18th  of  September,” — though  it  was  really 
the  26th  — and  all  at  once  Quito  in  its  May-like  afternoon  burst  out 
before  us  in  its  mountain  hollow,  a great  grassy  mound  cutting  off  the 
horizon  on  the  south.  Fifty-seven  days  had  passed  since  we  had 
walked  out  of  the  central  plaza  of  Bogota,  during  fifteen  of  which  we 
had  done  no  walking.  Our  pedometer  reported  the  distance  thence 
844  miles,  and  we  had  each  spent  a dollar  for  each  day  of  the  jour- 
ney. Hays  had  set  out  weighing  180,  and  I,  160;  we  arrived  weigh- 
ing 160  and  161,  respectively.  We  may  not  have  presented  quite  so 
bedraggled  an  appearance  as  the  remnant  of  Gonzalo  Pizarro’s  band 
on  their  return  from  the  wilderness  of  the  Amazon,  but  we  were  cer- 
tainly no  fit  subjects  for  a drawing-room. 


126 


CHAPTER  VI 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  EQUATOR 

I SETTLED  down  for  months  in  Quito.  Not  only  were  my  Canal 
Zone  experiences  to  be  written,  but  I had  long  since  planned 
to  become  a bona  fide  resident  of  a typical  small  South  Ameri- 
can capital.  A letter  of  introduction  won  me  quarters  in  the  home  of 
Senor  Don  Francisco  Ordonez  V,  in  the  calle  Flores,  while  Hays  hung 
up  his  hat  in  even  more  sumptuous  surroundings  around  the  corner. 

But  not  so  fast!  Not  even  whole-hearted  “ Don  Panchito  ” would 
have  received  me  in  the  state  of  sartorial  delapidation  of  our  arrival. 
The  people  of  Quito  are  somewhat  less  rigid  disciples  of  Beau  Brummel 
than  those  of  Bogota,  but  they  are  still  far  from  negligent  in  dress. 
Most  of  the  clothes  indispensible  to  our  entrance  into  the  ranks  of  the 
gente  decente  had  been  mailed  in  Jirardot,  the  rest  had  been  turned 
over  to  the  American  “ drummer  ” in  Cali.  The  first  shock  Quito  had 
in  store  for  us  was  the  information  that  no  parcel  of  any  shape  or 
description  had  come  from  Colombia  in  months,  the  second  was  the 
discovery  that  the  traveling-man  had  not  arrived.  It  was  hard  to 
realize  that  we  had  outwalked  all  the  established  means  of  transporta- 
tion in  this  equatorial  land. 

An  unavoidable  round  of  the  shops  wiped  out  the  remnant  of  my 
savings  as  a policeman,  and  brought  me  down  again  to  the  letter  of 
credit  that  had  lain  fallow  more  than  a half  year.  Except  for  tailor- 
made  suits,  the  cost  of  replenishing  a wardrobe  was  startling.  Ready- 
made clothing  for  men  is  rare  in  the  cities  of  the  Andes,  and  it  is 
far  more  economical  to  be  fitted  to  order  in  one  of  the  sastrerias  that 
abound  in  almost  every  street, — dingy  little  rooms,  their  fronts  all  door- 
way, in  which  sit  anemic  half-breed  youths  sewing  languidly,  yet  in- 
cessantly, now  and  then  carrying  the  charcoal-filled  “ goose  ” out  into 
the  street  to  blow  out  the  ashes,  and  as  dependent  on  the  passing  throng 
for  inspiration  as  the  craftsmen  of  Damascus.  As  in  the  more  north- 
ern capital,  the  chief  line  of  demarkation  between  the  gente  and  the 
pueblo  of  Quito  is  the  white  collar.  Naturally,  the  tendency  is  to  make 
it  as  wide  and  distinct  as  possible.  I had  canvassed  the  entire  city 
before  I found  my  customary  brand  of  neckwear  — at  four  times  its 

127 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


American  price  — only  to  discover  that  the  lowest  collar  in  stock  was 
designed  for  some  species  of  human  giraffe. 

“ You  misunderstand  me,”  I protested,  “ I did  not  ask  for  a cuff.” 

“ This  is  a collar,  senor,”  cried  the  shopkeeper. 

“ Something  lower,  please.” 

“ But  this  is  a very  low  collar ! It  is  so  low  that  no  one  in  Quito 
will  wear  it,  and  we  are  not  importing  any  more  of  this  brand.” 

In  the  matter  of  shoes,  I found  at  last  a Massachusetts  product 
that  might  have  served ; but  when  I had  beaten  the  dealer  down  to 
about  twice  the  American  price,  a seven  was  found  to  be  the  largest 
size  in  stock.  The  merchant  seemed  on  the  verge  of  tears. 

“ Why,  senor,”  he  gasped,  gazing  resentfully  at  the  offending  mem- 
ber, “ there  is  not  a foot  in  Quito  as  large  as  that  shoe.” 

He  did  not  mean  exactly  what  he  said,  but  it  was  natural  that  he 
should  have  had  in  mind  only  the  minority  of  quietenos  who  wear 
shoes.  These  squeeze  their  feet  into  articles  of  effeminate,  toothpick 
shape  for  custom’s  sake,  as  they  force  their  necks  into  collars  that 
come  little  short  of  hanging,  and  have  their  trousers  made  sailor- 
fashion,  that  their  feet  may  look  still  more  ladylike.  One  cannot,  of 
course,  pose  as  an  aristocrat  on  the  broad  hoofs  of  an  Indian.  In  the 
end  I was  forced  to  submit  to  botas  de  hide,  an  imitation  patent-leather 
shoe  made  in  Guayaquil. 

Hays  concluded  that  with  a general  overhauling  he  could  pass  muster 
until  our  bundles  arrived.  But  on  one  point  immediate  renewal  was 
unavoidable.  Tie  paused  in  the  doorway  of  one  of  the  little  sewing 
dens  to  ask : 

“Can  you  make  me  a pair  of  trousers  by  Saturday  night?” 

In  spite  of  having  pillowed  for  weeks  on  Ramsey,  Hays  never  could 
remember  that  Castilian  trousers  come  singly. 

“ Un  par,  senor ! ” cried  the  tailor,  “ Ah,  no,  that  is  impossible  so 
soon.  I can  make  you  a trouser  by  then,  but  not  two  of  them.  Then, 
while  you  are  wearing  the  one,  I can  perhaps  make  the  other,  if  the 
senor  is  in  such  haste.” 

“ Oh,  all  right,”  said  Hays,  suddenly  recalling  that  trousers  are  — I 
mean  is  — singular  in  Spanish,  “ go  ahead.  I ’ll  try  to  get  along  with 
one  over  Sunday.” 

The  error  persisted,  however.  It  was  not  three  days  later  that  he 
was  halted  at  the  door  of  his  lodgings  by  a whining  beggar. 

“ Una  caridad,  caballero ! Have  you  not  perhaps  some  old  clothes 
to  give  a poor  unfortunate  ? ” 


128 


A view  of  Quito,  backed  by  the  Panecillo  that  bottles  it  up  on  the  south.  There  are  six 

conventos  in  sight 


A patio  of  the  Monastery  of  San  Francisco,  one  of  the  eighteen  monasteries  and  convents 
of  Quito,  said  to  be  the  most  extensive  in  the  Western  Hemisphere 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  EQUATOR 

“ Sure,”  said  the  generous  ex-corporal  of  police.  “ I ’ll  bring  you 
down  a pair  of  trousers.” 

He  did  so,  whereupon  the  beggar  growled  angrily : 

“But  you  said  a pair!  Where  is  the  other  one?” 

Few  quiteno  dwellings  are  equipped  with  bathrooms.  I halted  a 
passerby  to  inquire  for  a public  casa  de  banos,  and  was  directed  to  the 
foot  of  the  calle  Rocafuerte. 

“Hot  baths?”  I queried,  suspiciously. 

“Certainly,  senor,”  he  answered  haughtily;  “If  you  go  there  any 
morning  about  ten,  when  the  sun  is  shining,  you  will  find  them  quite 
caliente.” 

A crumbling  old  adobe  gate,  marked  “ Banos  de  Milagro,”  gave  en- 
trance to  an  aged  two-story  building  of  the  same  material.  Passing 
through  this,  I was  astonished  to  find  spread  out  before  me  what  looked 
like  an  immense  outdoor  swimming-pool.  It  was  illusion.  Nearer 
approach  showed  a broad  sheet  of  water  barely  six  inches  deep,  a half- 
acre of  it  warming  in  the  sun.  I suddenly  recalled  that  the  same  word 
serves  in  Spanish  for  all  degrees  of  temperature  from  hot  to  luke- 
warm. About  the  basin  were  many  little  adobe  dens,  in  the  center  of 
each  a stone  basin  some  four  feet  deep,  with  steps  leading  down  into 
it.  The  fee  was  a mere  real  (five  cents),  for  the  streams  that  course 
down  the  face  of  Pichincha  are  abundant.  An  Indian  scrubbed  out 
the  pool  with  a broom  fashioned  from  a bundle  of  fagots,  and  turned 
it  full  of  a water  so  clear  that  I could  have  read  a newspaper  at  the 
bottom.  But  the  heating  apparatus  was  not  particularly  effective. 
When  the  icy  mountain  water  had  filled  the  stone  basin,  cold  as  only  a 
shaded  spot  at  this  altitude  can  be,  the  uninured  gringo  could  only  grit 
his  teeth,  clutch  desperately  at  his  6o-cent  bar  of  imported  English 
soap,  and  plunge  in  — and  quickly  out  again.  One  such  experience 
was  enough  to  explain  why  Quito  shows  so  decided  an  aversion  to  the 
bath. 

My  residence  in  the  city  was  all  but  nipped  in  the  bud  by  a mere 
master  of  red  tape.  Again  the  shock  was  administered  at  the  post- 
office.  When  I presented  the  registry  slips  for  the  package  of  notes 
on  which  my  proposed  volume  depended,  they  were  all  there,  sure 
enough,  the  seals  still  unbroken.  But  as  I opened  them  for  cus- 
toms inspection,  the  startled  employees  cried  out  in  horrified 
chorus : 

“ Senor,  it  is  against  the  law  to  send  manuscript  by  mail  in  Ecua- 
dor!” 


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VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


“ These  were  mailed  in  the  United  States,  where  it  is  not  against  the 
law.” 

“No  importa!  It  is  illegal  for  them  to  ride  in  the  Ecuadorian 
mails.  They  will  have  to  be  confiscated  by  the  government.” 

“ What  can  the  government  do  with  them?  ” I asked,  innocently. 

“ Burn  them,  of  course,”  replied  the  clerk. 

Luckily  the  laws  of  Ecuador  are  not  so  inexorable  and  incorruptible 
as  those  of  some  other  lands,  but  I passed  a far  from  pleasant  hour  be- 
fore I discovered  that  saving  fact.  Just  where  the  line  is  drawn 
between  “ manuscrito  ” and  mere  letters,  I was  never  able  to  learn. 
At  any  rate  the  sender  of  the  offending  notes  is  still  “ wanted,”  I be- 
lieve, to  serve  a year  in  the  penitentiary  of  Quito. 

I had  not  been  three  days  in  the  city  of  the  equator  when  I began 
to  feel  the  necessity  for  exercise.  The  “ best  families  ” lead  a very 
sedentary  and  physically  idle  existence,  virtually  spending  their  lives 
at  the  bottom  of  a hole  in  the  ground,  for  such  the  central  plaza  and 
the  few  adjoining  squares  about  which  it  is  customary  to  stroll  might 
be  called.  Yet  there  are  innumerable  views  and  picturesque  corners  to 
reward  him  who  will  climb  out ; and  climb  he  must,  for  the  city  lies  in 
a fold  of  the  skirts  of  Pichincha,  out  of  which  almost  every  street 
mounts  more  or  less  steeply. 

The  main  plaza  is  the  heart  of  Ecuador.  In  its  center,  instead  of 
the  “ handsome  brass  fountain  ” of  Stevenson’s  day,  rises  a tall,  showy 
monument  topped  by  a bronze  Victory  or  Liberty,  or  some  other  exotic 
bird,  while  at  its  base  cringes  an  allegorical  Spanish  lion  with  a look 
of  pained  disgust  on  his  face  and  an  arrow  through  his  liver.  Much 
of  the  square  is  floored  with  cement,  blinding  to  the  eyes  under  the 
equatorial  sun  and  only  mildly  relieved  by  staid  and  too  carefully 
tended  plots  where  violets,  pansies,  yellow  poppies,  and  many  a flower 
known  only  to  the  region  bloom  perennially.  Its  diagonal  walks  see 
most  of  Quito  pass  at  least  once  a day.  But  neither  Indians  nor  the 
ragged  classes  pause  to  sit  on  its  grass-green  benches ; nor  may  anyone 
carrying  a bundle  pass  its  gates  — unless  the  guard  chances  to  be  doing 
something  other  than  his  appointed  duty.  On  the  east  the  square  is 
flanked  by  the  two-story  government  “ palace,”  housing  the  presidency, 
the  ministry,  both  houses  of  congress,  the  custom-house,  Ecuador’s 
main  post-office,  and  considerable  else,  yet  still  finding  room  for  sev- 
eral cubby-hole  shops  under  its  portico.  To  the  south,  siding  on, 
rather  than  facing  the  square,  its  towers  barely  rising  above  the  roof, 
is  the  low  cathedral,  in  which  are  the  tombs  both  of  Sucre  and  his 

130 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  EQUATOR 


reputed  assassin,  Flores,  the  “ Washington  of  Ecuador.”  The  third 
and  fourth  sides  are  flanked  by  the  archbishop’s  palace  and  the 
municipality,  both  with  portales,  arcades  beneath  which  are  dozens 
of  little  den-like  shops,  and  filled  from  pillar  to  pillar  with  hawkers 
and  their  no  less  motley  wares. 

Every  street  of  the  city  is  roughly  cobbled,  with  a row  of  flagstones 
along  its  center  for  Indian  carriers  and  four-footed  beasts  of  burden, 
and  on  either  side  a narrow,  slanting  slab-stone  walk  on  which  the 
pedestrian  whose  appearance  suggests  the  lower  social  standing  is  ex- 
pected to  yield  the  passage.  Rambling  over  a rolling,  at  times  almost 
hilly  site,  every  street  is  due  sooner  or  later  to  run  off  into  the  air  on 
a hillside,  or  to  fade  suddenly  away  into  a noisome  lane. 

Quito  has  no  residential  section.  Its  chiefly  two-story  buildings  are, 
with  rare  exceptions,  constructed  of  mud  blocks  on  frames  of  chaguar- 
quero,  the  light,  pithy  stalk  of  the  giant  cactus,  with  roofs  of  the  famil- 
iar dull-red  tiles.  Whitewash  and  paint  of  many  colors  strive  in  vain 
to  conceal  this  plebeian  material,  and  many  a faqade  is  gay  with  orna- 
mentation. Well-to-do  people,  who  are  commonly  the  owners  of  the 
building  they  dwell  in,  occupy  the  second  floor.  The  lower  story  of 
the  city  is  the  business  section.  That  portion  of  the  house  facing  the 
street  is  almost  certain  to  be  given  over  to  from  one  to  several  shops, 
the  patio  serving  as  a yard  for  the  loading  and  unloading  of  pack- 
animals,  while  the  bare  adobe  cells  opening  on  it  house  the  family 
servants  and  Indian  retainers.  To  dwell  almost  anywhere  in  Quito  is 
to  live  in  the  upper  air  of  a combination  of  slums  and  business  houses, 
and  whatever  the  wealth  or  boasted  aristocracy  of  a family,  it  is  certain 
to  come  into  daily  contact  with  the  unwashed  gentc  del  pueblo  that  in- 
habits its  lower  regions  and  performs  its  menial  tasks. 

There  are  shops  enough  in  Quito,  to  all  appearances,  to  supply  the 
demands,  if  not  the  needs,  of  all  the  million  and  a half  inhabitants  of 
Ecuador.  These  are,  for  the  most  part,  small,  one-room  dungeons 
without  windows,  flush  with  the  sidewalk,  with  no  other  front  than  the 
doors  that  stand  wide  open  during  business  hours,  and  present  at  other 
times  their  blank  faces  ornamented  with  several  enormous  padlocks. 
The  quiteno  puts  no  trust  in  the  small  locks  of  modern  days.  Many  a 
shop,  the  entire  stock  of  which  is  not  worth  a hundred  dollars,  is  pro- 
tected not  only  by  bolts  and  bars  within,  but  by  half  a dozen  of  those 
huge  and  clumsy  contrivances  that  the  rest  of  the  world  used  in  the 
Middle  Ages.  To  “ shut  up  shop  ’’  is  a real  task  in  Quito,  of  which  the 
lugging  home  of  the  enormous  keys  is  by  no  means  the  least  burden- 

131 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


some.  Naturally,  if  a real  burglar  cared  to  take  the  trouble  to  journey 
to  Quito,  he  would  find  far  less  difficulty  at  his  trade  than  in  a city  os- 
tensibly less  secure. 

Besides  the  establishments  of  hundreds  of  men  who  would  rather 
wear  a white  collar  than  work,  there  are  innumerable  little  holes  in 
the  wall,  run  by  “ women  of  the  people  ” in  conjunction  with  their 
scanty  household  duties,  where  chicha  and  stronger  drinks,  and  the  few 
food-stuffs  of  the  Indians  and  the  poorer  classes  are  displayed  — and 
sometimes  sold,  though  there  are  barely  customers  enough  to  go  round. 
Clothing  stores,  or  more  exactly,  clothshops,  are  perhaps  most  numer- 
ous, countless  useless  duplications  of  the  selfsame  stock,  with  hundreds 
of  bolts  of  as  many  different  weaves  piled  high  in  the  open  doorways. 
Every  merchant,  however  meager  his  supplies,  announces  himself  an 
“ importer  and  exporter,”  and  after  morning  mass  manto-wrapped 
women  wander  for  hours  from  shop  to  shop,  haggling  for  a fancied 
difference  of  a half  cent  in  some  purchase  which,  in  the  end,  is  more 
apt  than  not  to  be  abandoned.  Business  is  petty  at  best ; its  ethics  low, 
and  the  native  quiteno  is  a weak  competitor  of  the  foreigners  that 
swarm  in  the  city.  Italians,  especially  the  wily  Neapolitan,  and 
“ Turks,”  as  the  ubiquitous  Syrians  are  called  in  all  South  America, 
capture  much  of  the  trade.  A foreigner  remains  a foreigner  in  Ecua- 
dor, for  the  country  has  but  weak  powers  of  assimilation. 

A unique  note  in  the  life  of  Quito  are  the  “ Propiedad  ” signs. 
Revolution,  with  its  accompanying  looting,  is  ever  imminent.  The  na- 
tive shopkeepers  are  frankly  at  the  mercy  of  the  looters,  who  only  too 
often  are  the  Government  itself.  But  the  foreigner  despoiled  of  his 
wares  can  always  lodge  a complaint  with  his  home  Government ; repar- 
ation may  follow,  and  even  the  punishment  of  the  looters  is  conceiv- 
able. To  warn  these  of  their  peril,  and  to  induce  sober  thought  in 
times  of  anarchy,  the  foreign  merchant  paints  on  his  shop-front  a huge 
flag  of  his  country,  similar  to  that  used  by  neutral  steamers  in  war- 
time, with  surcharged  words  conveying  the  same  information  to  those 
unacquainted  with  the  colors.  Thus  the  German’s  place  of  business  is 
distinguished  with  a: 

(black) 

1 PROPIEDAD 

(white) 

ALEMANA 

(red) 


The  family  of  “ Don  Panchito  ” with  whom  I lived  in  Quito.  In  front  stands  little  Mercedes, 
familiarly  known  as  “Meech,”  our  house-maid  and  general  servant 


Girls  of  the  “gente  decente”  class  of  Quito,  in  a school  run  by  European  nuns.  The  Mother 
Superior  (right)  is  Belgian;  the  nun  on  the  left  is  Irish 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  EQUATOR 

Within  a few  blocks  of  the  main  plaza  may  be  noted  the  following 
“ Propiedades  ” : “ Espanola,  Francesa,  Alemana,  Belga,  Danesa, 

Inglesa,  Italiana,  Holondesa,  Sueca,  Chilena,  Colombiana,  Peruana, 
Venezolana,  Turca,”  and  one  or  two  more.  The  Stars  and  Stripes  and 
the  words  “ Propiedad  Americana  ” appear  only  once  — on  the  door  of 
a small  export  house. 

Apparently  every  one  is  entitled  to  three  guesses  on  the  population 
of  Quito.  The  estimates  range  from  fifty  to  a hundred  thousand,  with 
the  truth  probably  somewhere  near  the  seventy-five  thousand  attributed 
to  it  in  Stevenson’s  day.  Its  tendency  of  late  years  has  been  to  over- 
flow its  banks ; the  suburb  of  Guarico  climbs  a considerable  way  up  the 
skirts  of  Pichincha,  and  the  huts  of  Indians  have  scrambled  well  up  the 
flanks  of  the  other  enclosing  ridges.  Though  more  in  touch  with  the 
outside  world  than  Bogota,  it  has  much  the  same  atmosphere  of  a 
world  apart,  a peaceful,  restful  little  sphere  supplied  with  a few  mod- 
ern conveniences  of  a crude,  break-down-often  sort,  but  with  little  of 
the  complicated  life  of  twentieth-century  cities.  It  is  a splendid  place 
to  play  at  life,  to  lie  fallow  and  catch  up  with  oneself,  with  nothing 
more  exciting  to  stir  up  existence  than  the  semi-weekly  concert  in  the 
plaza  mayor.  A score  of  carriages  rattle  over  its  cobbled  streets ; the 
rails  of  a tramway  line  had  been  laid  years  before  our  arrival,  but  the 
cars  had  not  yet  been  ordered.  Somewhere  there  may  be  a finer  cli- 
mate, but  it  would  scarcely  be  worth  while  going  far  to  look  for  it. 
Standing  at  a height  which,  in  the  temperate  zone,  would  be  covered  by 
eternal  snows,  the  city  is  sheltered  by  the  surrounding  ranges  from 
the  bitter  chill  that  descends  so  often  upon  less  lofty  Bogota.  In  the 
Colombian  capital  we  were  always  suffering  more  or  less  from  cold  in 
our  waking  hours,  except  at  midday ; in  Quito  it  was  possible  to  sit 
comfortably  on  a plaza  bench  at  midnight.  With  all  the  stages  of 
nature,  from  planting  through  blossoms,  fruit,  and  harvest,  existing 
side  by  side,  its  days  are  like  the  best  half-dozen  culled  from  a north- 
ern May.  There  is  a popular  saying  that  it  rains  thirteen  months  a 
year  in  Quito.  But  this  is  slander.  During  my  long  stay,  there  were, 
to  be  sure,  few  days  when  it  did  not  rain ; but  the  shower  came  almost 
always  at  a more  or  less  fixed  hour  of  the  afternoon,  and  the  resident 
soon  learned  to  make  his  plans  accordingly.  The  rain  seemed  heavier 
than  it  was  in  reality,  for  tin  spouts  pour  the  water  noisily  out  into  the 
cobbled  streets,  the  wide,  projecting  eaves  protecting  the  sidewalks. 
Now  and  then  came  a day  heavy  with  massed  clouds ; far  more  often 
all  but  an  hour  or  so  was  brilliant  with  sunshine. 

133 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


Yet  an  American  schoolma’am  accustomed  to  tell  her  pupils  that 
the  people  of  Quito  all  dress  in  white  because  it  lies  on  the  equator, 
would  be  startled  to  see  what  attention  even  a woman  in  light-colored 
garb  attracts  in  its  streets.  On  rare  occasions  a man  in  white  cotton 
passed  through  the  overcoated  plaza  during  the  evening  concert ; but 
this  meant  only  that  the  tri-weekly  train  from  Guayaquil  had  arrived. 
We  met,  too,  an  American  “ drummer,”  more  noted  for  his  ability  as  a 
“ mixer  ” than  for  his  knowledge  of  geography,  who  had  arrived  with 
a carefully  chosen  wardrobe  of  white  linen  suits  — and  proved  a god- 
send to  the  local  tailors.  Incidentally,  he  had  come  down  to  introduce 
American  plumbing  in  Ecuador ; but  that  is  another  and  still  sadder 
story.  The  truth  is  that  moderate  winter  clothing  is  never  out  of 
place  in  the  city  of  the  equator.  Even  at  noon,  with  one’s  shadow  a 
round  disk  under  foot  and  the  sun  glaring  to  the  eyes  and  burning  the 
skin  in  this  thin,  upland  air,  a leisurely  climb  up  one  of  the  longest 
streets  brought  no  memories  of  the  tropics. 

As  in  all  high  altitudes,  there  is  a marked  difference  between  sun- 
shine and  shade.  The  first  greeting  in  a quiteno  house  is  sure  to  be 
“ Cubrese  usted  ” (“  Put  on  your  hat  ”),  and  however  impolite  it  may 
seem  to  the  newcomer,  none  but  the  unwise  will  disregard  the  sug- 
gestion. Only  when  one  has  become  acclimated  to  the  room  may  one 
uncover  with  impunity,  for  to  catch  cold  in  Quito  is  a serious  matter, 
and  the  road  from  a cold  to  pneumonia  is  short  and  swift  in  this 
thin  air.  Thanks  to  the  altitude,  it  is  the  common  experience  of  new- 
comers to  be  either  unduly  exhilarated  or  sunk  in  the  depths  of  de- 
spondency. 

There  is  not  a chimney  in  Quito,  and  no  breath  of  smoke  is  ever 
known  to  smudge  her  transparent  equatorial  sky.  Factories,  in  the 
modern  sense,  are  unknown ; cooking  is  the  same  simple  operation  as  in 
the  rural  districts  of  the  Andes.  The  quiteno  knows  artificial  heat,  if 
at  all,  only  by  hearsay.  I chanced  to  be  in  the  reception-room  of  the 
Minister  of  Foreign  Affairs  one  afternoon  when  a newly  appointed 
Argentine  ambassador  dropped  in  for  his  first  informal  call.  In  the 
course  of  the  polished  small-talk  that  ensued,  the  diplomat  mentioned  a 
new  law  in  Buenos  Aires  requiring  the  heating  of  public  buildings  dur- 
ing certain  months  of  the  year.  The  Minister,  an  unusually  well-edu- 
cated man  for  Ecuador,  stared  a moment  with  a puzzled  expression, 
then  leaning  forward  with  undiplomatic  eagerness,  replied : 

“ Why,  I suppose  you  would  have  to  have  some  kind  of  artificial 
heat  in  those  cold  countries ! ’’ 


134 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  EQUATOR 


From  the  center  of  the  city  itself  not  one  of  the  snow-clad  volcanoes 
that  encircle  it  like  the  tents  of  a besieging  army  are  visible;  but  a 
climb  to  the  rim  of  the  basin  in  any  direction  leads  to  some  point  of 
vantage  overlooking  all  Quito  and  its  surroundings.  Of  a score  of 
far-reaching  views,  that  is  perhaps  most  striking  from  the  summit 
of  the  Panecillo.  The  “ Little  Loaf  ” that  bottles  up  the  town  on  the 
south  is  well-named;  it  resembles  nothing  so  much  as  a fat  biscuit, 
lush  green  in  its  covering  of  perpetual  spring.  Antiquarians  have 
never  agreed  whether  the  Panecillo  is  a natural  hill,  or  partly  or  wholly 
built  by  man.  Geologically  it  is  out  of  place,  for  all  the  rest  of  the 
region  is  rocky  and  broken,  and  nowhere  else  in  the  vicinity  has  na- 
ture constructed  any  symmetrical  thing.  Some  have  it  that  an  already 
existing  hill  was  rounded  off  before  the  Conquest,  as  a pedestal  for  the 
Temple  of  the  Sun  which  tradition  asserts  adorned  the  summit  long 
before  the  coming  of  the  Incas.  If  it  is  entirely  man-built,  the  con- 
struction of  the  pyramids  was  an  afternoon  sport  in  comparison. 
Somehow  the  imagination  likes  to  picture  thousands  of  Indians  of  both 
sexes  and  all  ages  jogging  like  lines  of  tropical  ants  up  and  down  the 
sacred  mound,  with  baskets  of  earth  on  their  uncomplaining  backs,  as 
they  still  trot  to-day  through  the  streets  of  Quito  under  loads  of  every 
description. 

A road  runs  round  and  round  the  Panecillo,  making  two  full  revolu- 
tions in  so  leisurely  and  dignified  a manner  that  it  would  seem  almost 
level  did  not  the  city  below  open  out  more  and  more  with  each  step 
forward.  At  the  summit,  across  which  sweeps  a never-failing  wind 
from  the  south,  is  a view  worth  many  times  such  a climb.  All  Quito 
lies  huddled  in  its  pocket  below,  like  the  body  of  a dull-red  spider  with 
its  legs  cut  off  at  varying  lengths.  The  city  is  clearly  visible  in  its 
every  detail,  from  the  very  roof-tiles  of  its  houses  to  the  gay-colored 
ponchos  of  the  Indians,  crawling  like  minute  specks  across  its  squares 
and  along  its  ditch-like  streets.  Along  the  earth-wrinkle  at  the  base 
of  Pichincha’s  long  ridge  are  glimpses  of  small  villages,  and  countless 
little  green  fields,  standing  edge-up  on  the  flank  of  the  range,  seem  so 
close  at  hand  as  to  be  almost  within  touch.  Here  the  early  riser  may 
watch  the  birth  of  clouds.  At  sunrise  the  Andes  stand  out  sharp  and 
clear,  as  if  the  sky  had  been  carefully  swept  during  the  night.  Then 
a tiny  patch  of  mist  detaches  itself  here  and  there  from  the  damp 
flanks  of  Pichincha,  streaks  of  steel-gray  clouds  begin  to  rise  under 
the  warming  sun,  like  a curtain  drawn  from  the  bottom;  soon  the 
entire  ridge  is  steaming  from  end  to  end,  and  before  one’s  very  eyes 

135 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


come  into  being  and  float  away  across  the  world  those  masses  of  clouds 
that  greet  the  late  riser  full-grown. 

In  the  transparent  air  of  the  highlands  the  eye  embraces  far  more 
than  the  city.  The  surrounding  world,  being  above  the  tree-line,  is 
bare  of  any  vegetation  other  than  the  brown  bunch-grass;  as  would  be 
the  city  and  its  environs,  also,  but  for  the  thousands  of  eucalyptus  trees 
imported  in  the  days  of  Garcia  Moreno.  Swinging  round  the  circle, 
one  catches  sight  of  a dozen  famous  volcanoes,  all  more  or  less  capped 
with  snow.  Almost  due  north  rises  the  glacier-clad  bulk  of  Cayambe, 
squatted  squarely  on  the  equator,  perhaps  forty  miles  away,  yet  seem- 
ing just  over  the  ridge  beyond  the  city.  Near  it,  jagged  Cotacache 
pierces  the  blue  heavens.  Further  around  comes  Antisana,  then  Sin- 
cholagua,  the  giant  that  not  many  years  ago  blew  its  head  off  in  a fit  of 
rage.  To  the  east  stands  Pasochoa,  close  followed  by  Ruminaui,  the 
“ Stony-Eyed,”  of  the  same  name  as  the  Inca-quiteno  general  who  con- 
tinued the  war  against  the  Spaniards  after  the  capture  of  Atahuallpa. 
Over  its  shoulder  peers  the  tip  of  Cotapaxi ; little  Corazon  comes  next, 
with  Iliniza  striving  in  vain  to  hide  behind  it,  until  finally  the  eye  has 
swung  back  to  the  broad  flanks  of  Pichincha,  up  which  clamber  Indian 
huts,  like  captive  turtles  striving  to  escape  from  their  enclosing  basin. 
Above  them  two  ragged  rock  and  lava  peaks,  often  streaked  with  snow, 
the  Rucu  and  Guagua  (“Man”  and  “Baby”)  Pichincha,  invisible 
from  the  city  itself,  stand  forth  close  at  hand  against  the  chill  steel- 
blue  of  the  upland  sky.  Pichincha  is  rated  a dead  volcano,  having 
given  no  signs  of  life  since  1660;  but  the  early  history  of  Quito 
is  strewn  with  its  ashes  and  destruction.  Quitenos  are  much  given  to 
bewailing  their  “ triste  ” landscape ; yet  few  of  her  canvases  has  Na- 
ture painted  with  so  masterly  a hand. 

Three  weeks  after  our  arrival  Hays  burst  in  upon  me  one  morning 
with  the  information  that  the  bundles  we  had  mailed  in  Jirardot  had 
come.  Well  on  in  the  afternoon  the  post-office  officials  saw  fit  to  lay 
them  before  us.  A ragged  boy  cut  the  strings  and  spread  out  the  con- 
tents for  customs  inspection.  This  over,  we  were  preparing  to  carry 
them  off,  when  we  were  halted  by  the  grunt  of  an  official  deep  in  some 
long  arithmetical  process  at  a nearby  desk.  By  and  by  he  rose  and 
pushed  toward  each  of  us  a long  list  of  figures : 


“ Mercancias  (Merchandise) — 8500  grams. 

“ Derechos  (Duty)  thereon  at  $2  a kilogram $ 17.00 

Mas  100%  (Plus  100%) 17.00 

Defensa  Nacional  1.70 


136 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  EQUATOR 


Aforro  $ 1.5 7 

Muellaje  (wharfage)  2.23 

Bodega  (storage)  93 

Brokerage  2.30 

Timbre  (stamp)  15 


Total  $ 42.88 


“ These  are  personal  belongings,  chiefly  clothing,  all  more  or  less 
worn,”  I began,  scenting  a long  controversy. 

“ True,  senor.” 

“ You  surely  do  not  ask  us  to  pay  duty  on  personal  baggage?  Trav- 
elers arrive  at  Guayaquil  every  week  with  several  trunks,  and  pay  no 
duty.” 

“ Only  that  is  baggage  which  the  traveler  personally  brings  in  with 
him.  The  charges  are  $42.88  — for  each,  senores,  since  the  parcels 
are  of  the  same  weight.” 

“ But  you  can  see  for  yourself  that  they  are  marked  ‘ Value  $7-’  ” 
“ The  law  goes  by  weight  only,  senor.” 

“Why  the  100%  addition?” 

“ The  new  law  requires  all  duties  to  be  levied  twice.” 

“ And  this  third  item?  ” 

“ For  the  up-keep  of  the  national  army  and  navy.” 

“Well,  what  is  this  aforro ?” 

“ That  is  the  freight  from  Panama.” 

“ But  the  postage  was  prepaid  from  Jirardot  to  Quito  — one  dol- 
lar. Doesn’t  Ecuador  belong  to  the  Postal  Union?” 

“ Naturally,  senor,  but  by  a special  treaty  with  the  United  States 
parcel-post  packages  pay  freight  across  the  Isthmus,  and  from  Panama 
to  here.” 

“ And  this  muellage  — ? ” 

“The  landing  charges  in  the  port  of  Guayaquil.  Bodega  is  for 
warehouse  storage  charges  — ” 

“ But  the  bundles  came  through  in  a mail-bag,  without  so  much  as 
entering  a warehouse.” 

“ Those  are  fixed  charges,  irrespective  of  special  conditions.  The 
brokerage  covers  my  fee  here  in  the  office,  and  the  stamp  is  that  which 
you  see  on  the  document  here.  The  total  charges  are  $42.88.” 

“ Keep  ’em,”  growled  Hays,  turning  away.  “ Make  a present  of 
them  to  your  president,  or  dress  up  one  of  your  statues  of  Liberty.” 
Naturally,  he  spoke  in  English,  for  we  still  planned  to  live  some  time  in 
Quito. 


137 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 

s' 

As  we  reached  the  door,  a word  from  the  official  caused  us  to  turn 
back.  He  was  up  to  his  ears  in  another  set  of  figures. 

“ We  can  call  it  cotton  instead  of  clothing,”  he  said,  presenting  a new 
list;  “ then  the  charges  will  be  only  $12.25.” 

“ Make  it  old  clothing,”  suggested  Hays. 

“ The  law  mentions  clothing,  without  qualifications,”  replied  the  of- 
ficial, with  that  patient  courtesy  that  is  the  chief  virtue  of  his  race. 

“ The  bundles  do  not  weigh  that,  anyway,”  I persisted.  “ Most  of  it 
is  in  the  wrappings.” 

“ The  law  specifies  bulk,  not  net  weight.” 

“ Keep  them,  with  our  compliments,”  growled  Hays,  turning  away. 
“ I ’ll  tell  you  what  you  can  do,  senores,”  suggested  the  official ; 
“ Go  buy  a stamped  sheet  of  government  paper  at  thirty  cents  and  write 
the  Director  of  Posts  — ” 

“ Why  can’t  we  write  him  on  ordinary  paper?  ” 

“ It  would  not  be  legal.  Go  buy  a thirty-cent  stamped  paper  and 
put  a ten-cent  stamp  on  it  — ” 

“What’s  that  for?” 

“ For  the  up-keep  of  the  national  army.  Write  the  Director  of  Posts 
reclaiming  the  duty  you  have  paid  — ” 

“After  we  have  paid  it?”  cried  Hays.  “ Hardly!  I have  had  too 
much  experience  with  Latin-American  governments.” 

In  the  end  we  bought  the  stamped  paper  and  wrote  the  director, 
leaving  the  letter  with  the  official,  who  promised  to  forward  it  to  his 
chief  — to-morrow.  As  the  bundles  contained  some  rather  indispens- 
able odds  and  ends,  and  because  I wished  to  investigate  Ecuadorian 
government  processes  to  the  bottom,  I followed  the  matter  up.  Next 
day  we  called  twice  at  the  post-office  and  finally,  late  in  the  afternoon, 
signed  a blank  request  to  be  given  the  packages  duty  free,  without 
which,  it  appeared,  the  matter  could  not  be  officially  considered.  Two 
days  later  we  were  informed  that  a junta  had  been  ordered  to  meet  and 
pass  on  the  case ; there  being  no  precedent  for  action.  A week  passed. 
The  junta  showed  no  ability  to  get  together.  I took  up  the  quest 
again  — and  spent  an  afternoon  in  gaining  admittance  to  the  sanctum 
of  the  Director  of  Posts.  He  was  courtesy  itself,  but  the  gist  of  his 
remarks  was : 

“ That  is  not  baggage  which  comes  in  by  mail.  It  is  only  legally  so 
when  it  crosses  the  frontier  with  its  owner.  However,  if  you  wish, 
you  might  call  on  the  Minister  of  Public  Instruction  — who  happens  to 
be  also  at  the  present  time  acting  Minister  of  the  Interior,  to  which  de- 

138 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  EQUATOR 

partment  the  matter  refers — and  ask  to  have  the  bundles  passed  as 
baggage.” 

I spent  the  better  part  of  two  days  in  the  anteroom  of  the  Ministry, 
a sumptuous  pink  and  blue  adobe  chamber  with  a score  of  bullet  holes 
in  the  walls  — mementoes  of  the  latest  request  of  the  populace  for  the 
resignation  of  the  president  — only  to  learn  : 

“ The  law  mentions  no  difference  between  old  and  new  clothing ; be- 
tween fresh  and  soiled  linen.  All  clothing  entering  Ecuador  — ex- 
cept as  baggage  — pays  the  same  duty ; hence  I see  no  way  you  can 
avoid  it.” 

I did  not  succeed  in  getting  the  matter  before  Congress  — officially, 
at  least  — though  I only  missed  taking  it  up  with  the  president  through 
an  oversight  of  one  of  his  aids.  In  the  end  I paid  the  $6.25  to  which, 
by  some  strange  manipulation,  the  post-office  official  had  reduced  the 
charges,  and  carried  the  object  of  controversy  home  to  the  calle 
Flores. 

These  small  countries  of  tropical  America  remind  one  less  of  na- 
tions than  of  groups  of  polite  bandits  who  have  taken  possession  of  a 
few  mountains  and  valleys  that  they  may  levy  tribute  on  whoever  falls 
into  their  hands.  All  of  them  have  imitated  larger  powers  by  enacting 
a “ protective  tariff,”  without  even  the  scant  excuse  that  has  been 
bloated  into  a reason  for  it  in  other  lands ; for  here  there  is  no 
industry  to  “ protect.”  Here  it  is  not  the  lobbies  of  large  financial  in- 
terests that  are  back  of  the  movement,  but  the  politicians  who  consti- 
tute the  “ government  ” ; the  tariffs  are  “ for  revenue  only  ” — largely 
for  the  pockets  of  the  politicians  themselves.  We  of  more  powerful 
nations  hardly  realize  what  it  means  to  live  in  so  small  a country  as 
Ecuador,  until  it  is  brought  home  by  some  such  incident  as  hearing 
the  entire  Congress  debating  several  hours  on  the  quest?on  of  whether 
two  new  electric-light  bulbs  shall  or  shall  not  be  placed  in  front  of  the 
government  “ palace.” 

Religiously,  Quito  is  still  in  the  Middle  Ages.  Looked  down  upon 
from  any  point  of  vantage,  it  has  the  aspect  of  an  ecclesiastical  capital. 
Tt  would  scarcely  be  an  exaggeration  to  say  that  half  the  city  is  taken 
up  by  the  Church.  Besides  its  many  bulking  “ temples  ” and  innumer- 
able chapels,  enormous  sections  of  the  town  are  swallowed  up  within 
the  confines  of  convents  and  monasteries.  The  largest  is  San  Fran- 
cisco, reputed  the  most  extensive  in  America.  The  Franciscans  got  in 
on  the  ground  floor  in  Quito.  The  ink  with  which  the  city  was 
founded  was  barely  dry  when  three  monks  of  that  order  arrived  afoot 

139 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


and  breathless  from  Guayaquil ; to  be  given  an  immense  grant  of  land 
running  far  up  the  flanks  of  Pichincha.  The  great  stone  cloisters  were 
a century  in  building;  a veritable  Chinese  Wall  of  brick,  backed  by 
clustered  hovels  of  the  poor,  encloses  what  would  have  been  six  city 
blocks,  and  the  holdings  of  the  order  in  haciendas  and  other  rich  prop- 
erties spread  far  and  wide  over  Ecuador.  During  the  irruption  of 
Pichincha  in  1575,  the  Franciscans  won  the  perennial  worship  of  the 
masses  by  the  simple  method  of  raising  aloft  the  Hostia  and  com- 
manding the  flow  of  lava  to  cease  — and  continuing  to  hold  it  aloft 
until  the  command  was  obeyed.  To-day  they  still  loll  under  such 
withered  laurels. 

Two  youths  of  Quito’s  “best  families”  accompanied  me  to  San 
Francisco.  A monk  in  brown  greeted  my  companions  as  befitted  their 
high  rank  and  potential  power  of  beneficence;  yet  with  an  undercurrent 
of  insincerity  and  of  dislike  for  these  sons  of  “ Liberals,”  which  he 
was  unable  wholly  to  conceal.  We  passed  through  several  flowery 
patios  musical  with  fountains  and  surrounded  by  pillared  arcades,  off 
which  opened  large,  vaulted  chambers,  to  an  Elysian  orchard  under  the 
trees  of  which  a score  of  well-fed,  well-slept  monks  strolled  in  pastoral 
contentment  far  from  the  hubbub  and  cares  of  the  modern  world. 
Cigarette  butts  littered  the  floor  of  a kiosk  in  the  center;  scarcely  a 
face  was  to  be  seen  in  which  the  signs  of  frequent  debauch  could  not 
plainly  be  read.  The  walls  and  ceiling  of  the  adjoining  church  were 
so  covered  with  gold  that  the  imagination  harked  back  to  the  ransom 
of  Atahuallpa.  My  companions  whispered  that  an  American  had  re- 
cently offered  $15,000  for  the  privilege  of  removing  what  remained  of 
the  genuine  metal,  promising  to  regild  the  church  so  expertly  that  the 
transaction  would  never  be  detected.  The  offer  had  been  considered, 
but  declined  when  some  suspicion  of  the  deal  reached  the  public  ear. 
The  monks  were  still  open  to  similar  propositions,  however.  Over  a 
door  of  the  monastery  hung  an  old  painting  of  “ Maria  Dolorosa  ” by 
a famous  Spanish  artist.  One  of  my  companions,  himself  a painter  of 
some  ability,  offered  a tempting  sum  for  permission  to  replace  the 
“ dusty  old  thing  ” with  a brand  new  copy ; and  the  impression  left  by 
a deal  of  murmuring  and  pantomime  was  that  the  offer  would  eventually 
be  accepted. 

When  we  asked  permission  to  climb  to  the  tower  for  a view  of  the 
town,  however,  the  monk  gave  us  a quick,  sidelong  glance  and  re- 
gretted that  the  Father  Superior  no  longer  permitted  it.  My  com- 
panions exchanged  winks,  but  found  no  opportunity  to  enlighten  me 

140 


Ecuadorian  soldiers  before  the  national  "palace”  °uito  d°es  not  put  ,its  faith  in  sma11  Iocks  and  keys-  Many 

a shop  containing  hardly  $100  worth  of  goods  has  a 

half-dozen  padlocks  and  interior  bolts 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  EQUATOR 


until  we  had  taken  our  ceremonious  leave.  Once  outside  I learned  — 
to  my  astonishment  — that  not  merely  foreigners  resent  having  each 
night’s  sleep  broken  up  into  a series  of  detached  naps  by  the  unearthly 
din  of  Quito’s  church-bells.  A few  months  before,  several  young 
men  of  the  well-to-do  class  had  formed  a conspiracy  to  taste  the  un- 
known luxury  of  one  night  of  unbroken  slumber.  Gaining  admission 
on  various  pretexts  to  all  the  church-towers  of  the  city,  the  conspira- 
tors had  stolen  the  badajos  — clappers,  I believe  we  call  them  in 
English  — and  got  rid  of  them  so  effectually  that  few  were  ever  dis- 
covered. The  priests  were  distracted  — until  their  faithful  hench- 
men of  the  masses  had  replaced  the  pilfered  property  with  pieces  of 
railroad  iron.  Since  then  the  church-towers  had  been  closed  to  the 
educated  youth  of  the  city. 

Not  far  from  San  Francisco  rises  the  florid  faqade  of  “ La  Com- 
pania.”  The  Jesuits  reached  the  present  capital  of  Ecuador  a bit  later 
than  many  of  their  competitors,  but  they  quickly  overcame  the  handi- 
cap. They  established  the  first  boticas,  or  drug-stores,  and  brooked 
no  competition.  Besides  enormous  tracts  of  the  most  fertile  land  in 
the  colony,  they  were  granted  a monopoly  of  cattle-breeding  and,  being 
free  from  taxes  and  the  necessity  of  paying  the  King’s  share,  and  hold- 
ing the  Indians  in  virtual  slavery  at  less  than  a nominal  wage,  most 
of  which  returned  to  their  coffers  in  the  form  of  church  tithes  and 
levies,  they  easily  choked  private  competition  and  soon  outdistanced  in 
wealth  even  the  Franciscans.  Their  expulsion  from  Spanish  soil 
greatly  reduced  their  power  and  holdings.  To-day,  what  was  once  a 
part  of  their  monastery  is  occupied  by  the  University  and  the  National 
Library,  but  they  are  still  scarcely  cramped  for  space.  An  Alsatian 
Jesuit,  of  an  esthetical  cast  of  countenance  in  striking  contrast  to 
his  Ecuadorian  brothers,  led  me  fearlessly  even  into  the  belfry.  He 
was  a plainspoken  man,  for  all  his  astuteness  — or  perhaps  by  reason 
of  it  — and  openly  bewailed  the  immorality  of  the  native  friars  and 
what  he  called  the  “ silly  superstitions  ” of  the  people.  The  dormi- 
tories of  the  boarding-school  within  the  monastery  were  divided  into 
small  cells  by  low  wooden  partitions  covered  with  chicken-wire,  like 
the  ten-cent  lodging-houses  of  Chicago.  Before  I had  time  to  put  a 
question,  the  Alsatian  explained : 

“ In  these  countries  we  must  keep  the  boys  locked  in  their  own 
rooms  at  night,  for  morality’s  sake.” 

It  is  more  than  unusual  in  Latin-America,  but  at  least  one  enter- 
prising pupil  found  it  possible  to  “ work  his  way  ” through  the  colegio 

141 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


of  the  Jesuit  Fathers  of  Quito.  His  fame  was  still  green  among  the 
gilded  youths  of  the  city.  By  the  rules  of  the  institution  each  student 
is  required  to  go  to  confession  once  a week.  The  enterprising  lad  long 
relieved  his  comrades  of  the  unpleasant  formality  by  impersonating 
each  in  turn  before  the  perforated  disk  — at  the  equivalent  of  fifty 
cents  a head. 

Merced,  Corazon,  Buen  Pastor,  San  Augustin,  Santa  Barbara,  Santa 
Clara,  Carmen  Antigua,  Carmen  Moderno,  San  Juan  ...  to  name  all 
the  orders  that  occupy  huge  spaces  within  the  city  of  Quito  would  be 
like  writing  an  ecclesiastical  directory.  Down  at  the  end  of  the  calle 
Flores  the  Dominicans  dwell  in  a monastery  little  less  extensive  than 
that  of  the  Franciscans.  Their  wealth  may  be  surmised  from  the  fact 
that  in  colonial  days  they  held  the  monopoly  of  supplying  all  liquor 
used  in  “ divine  worship  ” throughout  the  colony.  In  the  center  of  the 
riaza  Santo  Domingo  is  a statue  of  Sucre,  companion  of  Bolivar  in 
the  wars  of  Spanish-American  independence, — a splendid  bronze  of 
an  imaginary  Hercules  that  should  be  set  up  in  some  gymnasium  as  a 
model  — concerning  which  there  runs  a tale  suggestive  of  local  con- 
ditions. Soon  after  its  erection  an  Indian  living  far  up  the  mountain- 
side above  the  suburb  of  Guarico  lost  his  pig.  He  tried  every  known 
means  of  recovering  the  animal. — prayed  to  every  available  saint  with 
any  reputation  for  miracles,  squandered  his  meager  substance  in  burn- 
ing candles  before  every  shrine  in  Quito,  and  purchased  many  a 
priestly  prayer.  All  in  vain;  the  pig  was  not  to  be  found.  At  length 
a quiteno  — whether  a wag  or  a sincere  believer  is  not  reported  • — 
whispered  to  the  distracted  Indian  that  the  most  powerful  saint  of  all 
was  the  new  one  in  the  Plaza  Santo  Domingo.  The  credulous  fellow 
lost  no  time  on  his  way  to  the  square,  where  he  knelt  with  a lighted 
candle  on  either  side  of  him  before  the  pedestal  of  the  Hero  of  Aya- 
cucho.  When  he  looked  up  from  his  first  invocation  he  noted  that  the 
statue  was  pointing  to  the  battlefield  on  which  its  original  defeated  the 
Spaniards,  far  up  the  slope  of  Pichincha,  which  chanced  also  to  be  the 
location  of  the  Indian’s  hut.  He  hurried  homeward  and,  sure  enough, 
found  the  pig  in  a hollow  not  far  from  his  dwelling.  Since  then 
“ Saint  Sucre  ” has  had  a great  vogue  with  the  Indian  populace  of 
Quito. 

It  would  be  out  of  place  to  enumerate  the  many  proofs,  from  per- 
sonal experiences  to  matters  of  common  knowledge,  from  national 
literature  to  frequent  notorious  scandals,  of  the  moral  laxity  of  the 
quiteno  priesthood.  Whatever  they  may  be  elsewhere,  celibacy  and  the 

142 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  EQUATOR 

confessional  are  undeniably  ill-chosen  institutions  for  a race  of  Ecua- 
dorian caliber.  The  non-Catholic  would  not  dream  of  berating  the 
churchmen  in  any  such  terms  as  those  which  frequently  fall  from  the 
lips  of  educated  men  of  Quito.  More  than  once  I have  heard  a devout 
quitena  mother  bewail  the  fact  that  she  dare  not  send  her  daughter 
to  confession,  though  convinced  that  the  ceremony  was  requisite  to 
the  saving  of  her  soul.  One  looks  in  vain  for  any  connection  what- 
ever between  religion  and  morality  in  this  typical  Andean  capital. 
The  sanctimonious  old  beatas,  wrapped  in  their  black  mantos,  who 
haunt  the  churches  and  accompany  every  religious  procession  with 
tears  of  hysterical  ecstasy  coursing  down  their  cheeks  are  not  infre- 
quently procurers  and  go-betweens  of  the  human  vultures  that  dwell 
in,  as  well  as  out  of,  the  monasteries.  The  street-walkers  of  Quito 
are  almost  all  fervent  mass-goers.  Scores  of  the  same  faces  that  peer 
invitingly  out  upon  the  passerby  at  night  may  be  seen  next  morning 
kneeling  on  the  pavement  of  the  cathedral  or  walking  on  their  knees 
around  the  entire  circle  of  plaster  saints,  reciting  a prayer  formula  be- 
fore each.  Nor  is  this  hypocrisy.  These  victims  see  no  incongruity 
between  the  evening’s  doings  and  the  morning’s  occupation.  To  the 
masses,  religion  is  a mixture  of  idol  worship  and  the  performance  of 
fixed  ceremonies,  wholly  divorced  from  their  personal  actions.  The 
sins  of  daily  life  are  wiped  out  by  a quarter-hour  in  the  confessional ; 
absolution  is  granted  for  the  payment  of  a fee  and  the  performance  of 
a set  devotion.  The  brain  cells  where  real  morality  might  find  a foot- 
hold are  packed  with  absurd  catechisms  that  leave  no  room  for  it ; and 
of  religion  there  remains  nothing  but  unthinking  costumbre  and  un- 
reasoning fanaticism. 

Quito  has  been  called  the  most  fanatical  town  of  South  America. 
Among  a score  like  it,  the  present  archbishop  tells  the  following  story  in 
his  “ History  of  Ecuador.”  About  two  hundred  years  ago  some  one 
broke  into  one  of  the  churches  and  stole  the  sacred  wafers,  together 
with  the  gold  ciborium  in  which  they  were  kept.  A few  days  later 
the  stolen  property  was  found  lying  in  the  refuse  of  a ditch.  Amid 
great  weeping,  a procession  of  the  entire  population  bore  the  sacred 
emblem  back  to  its  church.  For  weeks  the  whole  town  dressed  in  deep- 
est mourning ; the  audiencia  gave  all  its  attention  and  the  police  force 
all  its  efiforts  to  running  down  those  “ vile  traitors,  bestial  swine,  and 
venial  sinners,”  as  the  gentle  archbishop  calls  them,  leaving  little  mis- 
demeanors like  robbery  and  murder  to  look  after  themselves.  Not  a 
clue  was  uncovered.  At  length  a famous  Jesuit  of  the  time  preached  a 

143 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


sermon  that  lashed  the  populace  into  such  fervor  that  the  congregation 
poured  forth  into  the  streets  beating  themselves  with  chains  and 
scourges,  most  of  them,  men  and  women,  naked  to  the  waist  — I am 
quoting  the  archbishop  — in  a procession  and  religious  fury  that  lasted 
from  eight  at  night  until  two  in  the  morning.  A scapegoat  was  im- 
perative. The  officers  of  the  audiencia,  in  peril  of  being  themselves 
forced  to  assume  that  role,  redoubled  their  efforts,  and  at  length  found, 
some  distance  south  of  the  city,  three  Indians  and  a half-caste  who  were 
reputed  to  have  confessed  to  the  nefarious  crime.  The  four  mis- 
creants were  brought  back  to  the  city,  kicked  about  the  streets  by  the 
populace,  trussed  up  in  chains  in  the  church  while  the  priest  preached 
a four-hour  sermon  on  “ the  most  atrocious  crime  in  the  history  of 
Quito,”  and  were  finally  hanged,  drawn,  and  quartered,  and  hung  up, 
still  dripping  with  blood,  in  sixteen  parts  of  the  town.  The  priests 
and  their  followers  dug  up  a potful  of  earth  where  the  holy  wafers  had 
been  found,  and  deposited  it  in  a heavy  vase  of  solid  gold  that  is 
still  one  of  the  precious  relics  of  the  cathedral.  Then  they  caused  to 
be  erected  over  the  spot  the  chapel  of  Jerusalem,  where  it  stands  to 
this  day.  “And,”  adds  the  archbishop,  “no  del  [faithful  one]  will 
deny  that  they  met  their  just  fate  for  so  vile  and  unprecedented  a 
sacrilege.” 

Ah,  but  that  was  two  centuries  ago.  True,  but  permit  me  to  bring 
the  fanaticism  of  Quito  up  to  date.  Less  than  a year  before  our  ar- 
rival the  perennial  struggle  between  the  Liberals  and  the  Conservatives, 
the  latter  the  church  party,  had  broken  out  again  in  revolution.  A 
queer-looking  little  man,  with  a white  goatee  sprouting  from  a mild- 
tempered  chin,  and  wearing  habitually  a hat  that  would  have  been  the 
envy  of  a slap-stick  comedian,  had  for  years  been  president  of  Ecua- 
dor. He  had  stolen  unusually  little  for  a Latin-American  president, 
and  had  not  allowed  his  friends  to  steal  more  than  the  average. 
Moreover,  he  had  done  the  country  much  service,  among  other  things 
having  induced  an  American  to  complete  the  railroad  from  the  coast 
to  Quito.  Also  he  had  curtailed  some  of  the  unbridled  graft  of  the 
church ; and  strangely  enough  the  church  had  resented  that  species 
of  reform  and  turned  the  power  of  the  Conservatives  against  him. 
To  be  sure,  the  queer  little  man  had  objected  to  surrendering  his  office 
to  a newly  elected  incumbent ; but  that  is  a common  South  American 
peccadillo.  When  the  populace  rose  and  drove  him  out,  he  went  down 
to  the  coast  and  gathered  an  army  of  his  ie\\ow-costenos.  But  luck 
had  deserted  him.  After  a few  battles  he  was  captured,  together  with 

144 


A corner  of  Quito  looking  through  a garbage-hole  into  one  of  the  many  ravines  by  which  the 

city  is  broken  up 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  EQUATOR 

several  sons,  nephews,  and  henchmen.  The  Conservatives  were  trium- 
phant. The  Government  ordered  the  captives  to  be  sent  up  to  Quito. 
The  general  in  command  at  Guayaquil  protested  that  such  action  was 
unsafe  until  the  fury  of  the  populace  evaporated.  The  Government 
assured  him  the  danger  was  visionary,  and  repeated  the  order.  A 
special  train  was  made  up,  and  set  out  on  the  long  climb  to  the  plateau. 
That  was  on  a Saturday.  Next  morning  a priest,  noted  for  his  virulent 
eloquence,  preached  a sermon  that  lashed  the  church-going  masses  into 
fury.  At  noon  word  came  that  the  train  had  arrived,  and  the  prisoners 
hurried  by  automobile  to  the  Panoptico,  the  wheel-shaped  penitentiary 
up  on  the  lower  flanks  of  Pichincha.  The  populace  quickly  gathered. 
The  bullet-holes  through  the  false  stone  walls  of  the  dismal  little  mud 
cells,  in  the  narrow  corners  of  which  the  prisoners  crouched,  were  still 
fresh  when  we  wandered  through  the  place,  months  later.  Among  the 
most  fanatical  of  the  mob  were  the  police  and  those  whose  duty  it  was 
to  guard  the  prison.  In  the  excitement  some  twoscore  prisoners 
escaped,  and  joined  the  rioters.  The  little  ex-president  and  his  com- 
panions, dead  or  dying,  were  stripped  naked,  ropes  were  tied  to  their 
ankles,  and  they  were  dragged  for  hours  through  the  cobbled  streets 
of  Quito,  the  frenzied  populace  raising  the  echoes  of  the  surrounding 
ranges  with  shouts  of  “ Long  Live  the  Church ! ” “ Viva  la  Virgen 
Maria!” 

I have  two  photographs  taken  by  Don  Jesus,  nephew  of  my  host, 
from  the  window  of  what  was  later  my  own  room,  as  the  bodies  of  the 
former  president  and  his  eldest  son  were  passing.  They  show  a throng 
made  up  exclusively  of  cholos,  those  of  mixed  blood,  who  constitute 
the  bulk  of  Quito’s  population.  Not  a white  collar  of  the  gente  decente 
or  the  broad  felt  hat  of  an  Indian  is  to  be  seen.  On  through  the 
entire  length  of  the  city  the  barbaric  procession  continued.  Near  the 
Plaza  San  Bias  a swarm  of  the  lowest  women  in  town  descended  with 
knives  from  their  hovels  and  carried  off  gruesome  mementoes  of  the 
orgy.  At  length  the  mob  reached  the  Ejido,  the  broad,  green  play- 
ground of  Quito,  where  they  hacked  in  pieces  the  bodies  of  the  victims 
with  machetes  and  whatever  implement  came  to  hand.  Some  carried 
to  their  huts  as  souvenirs  the  heads  of  the  ex-president  and  his  sons, 
from  which  they  were  recovered  with  difficulty  only  after  the  frenzy 
had  died  down  and  been  slept  off.  The  rest  was  piled  in  heaps  and 
burned.  Such  were  los  arrastres  (“the  draggings”),  to  which  the 
educated  quiteno  refers,  if  at  all,  in  shamed  undertones. 

Quito  is  not  so  light  of  complexion  as  Bogota.  Not  merely  is  her 

145 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


percentage  of  Indian  blood  higher,  but  even  those  of  unmixed  Euro- 
pean ancestry  have  a sallow  or  olive  tint,  and  little  of  the  color  in  their 
cheeks  frequent  in  the  more  rigorous  capital  of  Colombia.  Negroes 
are  unknown  as  residents.  There  is  a careful  gradation  in  caste,  yet 
chiefly  a void  in  place  of  what,  in  other  lands,  would  be  a middle  class. 
The  population  is  divided  rather  sharply  between  those  brutalized 
from  carrying  ox-loads  on  their  backs,  and  those  who  remain  soft  and 
effeminate  from  careful  avoidance  of  any  muscular  exertion.  For 
even  the  cholo  is  economically  either  Indian  or  white,  depending  on 
his  wealth  or  occupation.  To  carry  even  a small  package  through 
the  streets  is  to  jeopardize  one’s  standing  as  a member  of  the  upper 
class.  “ Don’t  hurry,”  a frock-tailed  quiteno  told  me  in  all  serious- 
ness one  day.  “ People  will  think  you  are  ocupado,”  busy,  that  is, 
with  vulgar  work.  It  is  customary  to  raise  one’s  hat  to  every  male 
acquaintance  “ of  your  own  class  or  above,”  to  pause  and  shake  hands 
with  every  one  considered  your  equal,  to  ask  him  how  he  has 
amanecido  (“dawned”),  to  inquire  after  his  family  individually,  and 
to  shake  hands  again  before  parting;  and  that  as  often  as  you  meet 
him,  though  it  be  every  half-hour  during  the  day.  Americans  who  have 
lived  long  in  South  America  have  the  hand-shaking  habit  chronically. 
The  greeting,  or  more  exactly  the  acknowledgment  of  the  greeting, 
of  one’s  inferior  varies  from  a patronizing  heartiness  to  the  corner 
tailor  to  a half-audible  grunt  to  an  Indian.  The  latter  is  always  ad- 
dressed in  the  “ tu  ” form,  “ because,”  as  one  of  my  Beau  Brummel 
acquaintances  put  it,  “ there  is  no  reason  whatever  to  show  any  re- 
spect to  the  Indian.”  During  several  months’  acquaintance  I found 
no  great  reason  to  show  any  to  the  speaker ; but  that,  perhaps,  is  be- 
side the  point. 

How  wholly  lacking  the  place  is  in  genuine  democracy  is  frequently 
illustrated.  I was  strolling  in  the  plaza  mayor  one  day,  for  instance, 
with  the  grandson  of  the  “ Washington  of  Ecuador,”  a youth  of  Amer- 
ican school  training  and  of  unusually  high  standards,  when  he  stepped 
on  the  flagging  surrounding  the  central  monument.  The  cholo 
policeman  on  guard  hesitated,  but  finally  screwed  up  unusual  courage 
and  informed  the  youth  in  a courteous,  not  to  say  humble,  manner 
that  he  had  been  ordered  not  to  let  any  one  walk  on  the  flagging.  The 
descendant  of  Ecuador’s  founder  turned  a brilliant  red,  as  if  his  noble 
house  had  been  vilely  insulted,  then  so  white  that  his  blond  hair  seemed 
to  become  dark  brown.  He  strode  across  to  the  officer,  who  was  con- 
siderably larger  than  he,  caught  him  by  the  coat,  and  all  but  jerked 

146 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  EQUATOR 


him  off  his  feet.  The  policeman  abjectly  apologized.  The  “best 
people  ” of  Quito  do  not  realize  that  it  is  not  the  individual  police- 
man, their  “ inferior,’’  giving  them  orders,  but  lawful  and  orderly  so- 
ciety speaking  through  him. 

As  in  the  days  of  Stevenson’s  travels,  a century  ago,  “ the  principal 
occupation  of  persons  of  rank  is  visiting  their  estates,  particularly  at 
harvest-time.”  By  far  the  greater  portion  of  the  year  they  spend  in 
town,  however,  leaving  their  haciendas  in  charge  of  mayordomos  little 
acquainted  with  modern  agricultural  methods.  The  city  has  so  few 
recreative  attractions  that  it  is  hard  for  a man  of  education  to  avoid  a 
more  or  less  studious  life,  be  it  only  as  a pastime.  Yet  Quito  does  not 
even  aspire  to  rival  Bogota  as  the  “ Athens  of  South  America.” 
Ecuador  is  not  without  her  literature,  but  it  has  come  from  other  towns 
more  frequently  than  from  the  capital.  The  game  of  politics,  not  with- 
out its  perils,  engrosses  the  attention  of  many.  Then,  as  in  most  Latin- 
American  countries,  not  a few  dissipate  their  energies  in  the  “ pursuit 
of  pleasure  ” of  a rather  specific  kind.  So  assiduously  does  the  average 
quiteno  devote  himself  to  this  from  early  youth  that  it  is  not  strange 
that  an  old  man  of  the  dccente  class  is  rarely  seen.  There  is  a con- 
siderable provincialism,  even  among  the  best  educated  classes.  I heard 
often  such  questions  as  “What  is  a sleigh?”  “When  is  summer?” 
The  story  is  well  vouched  for  that  a congressman  asked  a colleague 
just  back  from  abroad,  “ Can  a man  get  to  Europe  in  three  weeks  on  a 
good  mule  ? ” 

The  women  of  the  well-dressed  class  in  Quito  are  less  given  to  the 
display  of  mustaches  than  those  of  Bogota.  Not  a few  are  distinctly 
attractive,  particularly  in  early  youth.  In  later  life  too  many  suggest 
in  their  features  some  years  of  a rather  harrowing  existence.  Out- 
spoken quitenos  lay  this  condition  at  the  door  of  the  priests  and  friars, 
but  mere  economic  pressure  probably  plays  at  least  as  considerable  a 
part.  The  up-keep  of  so  many  enormous  ecclesiastical  institutions 
cannot  but  drain  the  resources  of  so  stagnant  a city.  Wealth  does  not 
abound,  and  feminine  opportunity  to  earn  a livelihood  is  narrowly  re- 
stricted. It  is  not  strange,  then,  if  more  than  one  family  still  rated  in 
the  gentle  decente  class  remains  with  no  other  barrier  against  starva- 
tion than  the  youthful  freshness  of  its  daughters.  In  most  parts  of  the 
world  a glance  suffices  to  distinguish  a woman  of  public  life  from  her 
respected  sisters.  In  Quito  it  is  not  so  easy.  Indeed,  there  seems  to  be 
no  hard  and  fast  line  between  the  two  classes.  Certain  undercurrents 
suggest  a tacit  admission  that  some  families  have  only  one  means  of 

147 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


tiding  over  their  existence  until  a lucky  turn  of  politics,  or  of  the  lottery 
wheel,  sets  them  on  their  feet  again.  Then,  if  the  girl’s  career  has  not 
been  too  public,  she  may  be  bestowed  on  a husband  of  a somewhat 
lower  social  level. 

Let  me  not  leave  the  impression  of  a general  laxity  among  the  women 
of  Quito.  The  sheltered  daughters  of  the  most  responsible  classes  are 
models  of  modesty  and  domesticity.  But  he  who  dwells  any  length  of 
time  in  the  city  would  be  blind  to  overlook  certain  facts,  be  they  the 
result  of  an  impoverished  society  or  more  directly  fostered  by  those 
ecclesiastical  elements  to  whom  the  embittered  men  of  higher  rank 
charge  them. 

Thus  far  I have  said  little  of  the,  if  not  most  numerous,  at  least 
most  conspicuous  class  in  Quito, — the  Indians.  Ignoring  the  very 
considerable  number  in  whose  veins  runs  a greater  or  less  percentage 
of  aboriginal  blood,  those  in  whom  it  is  still  without  admixture  make 
up  perhaps  forty  per  cent,  of  the  population,  and  give  the  city  most  of 
its  color.  There  is  not  a house  in  town,  from  the  bright-yellow,  three- 
story  adobe  dwelling  of  the  president  down,  without  its  Indians, — • 
family  servants  and  burden-bearers  huddled  in  the  mud  cells  about  the 
cobbled  patio  of  the  lower  story,  or  homeless  wretches  who  lie  by  night 
in  any  unoccupied  corner  and  pick  up  a precarious  existence  by  day  in 
competition  with  donkeys  and  pack-animals.  Their  earth-floored  ken- 
nels form  the  tassel-ends  of  almost  every  street;  they  scatter  out  along 
all  the  highways,  and  dot  the  flanks  of  every  range  and  mountain  spur 
in  the  vicinity. 

If  they  have  changed  since  the  Conquest,  it  is  for  the  worse.  In 
habits  and  condition  they  vary  scarcely  at  all  from  those  of  the  dreary 
Andean  villages  through  which  we  had  passed.  Theirs  is  a purely 
animal  existence.  They  have  not  the  faintest  notion  of  any  line  be- 
tween filth  and  cleanliness,  avoiding  only  that  which  is  obviously  poison, 
by  an  instinct  common  to  the  lower  animals.  I have  seen  them  drink 
water  I am  sure  a thirsty  horse  would  not  touch,  and  that  despite  the 
fact  that  fresh  water  was  to  be  had  a few  yards  away.  They  literally 
never  wash  so  much  as  a finger,  except  on  some  such  occasion  as  a 
church  fiesta,  when  they  may  pause  at  a pool  or  mud-hole  on  the  edge 
of  town  to  scrub  their  feet  with  a stone.  They  speak  a debauched 
dialect  of  Quichua,  the  tongue  of  the  Incas,  mixed  with  some  words  of 
the  conquered  Caras,  though  all  understand  Spanish,  or  at  least  the 
Indian-Spanish  spoken  in  Quito. 

Many  consider  the  Andean  Indian  a debased  Mongolian  type,  a 

148 


After  the  bullfight  a yearling  is  often  turned  into  the  ring  for  the  amusement  of  the  youthful 
male  population  of  Quito 


A group  of  the  Indians  that  form  so  large  a percentage  of  Quito’s  population.  The  hats  are 
light  gray,  the  ponchos,  skirts,  and  shawls  each  some  crude,  brilliant  color 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  EQUATOR 

theory  not  without  its  basis  in  his  features.  In  a curious  old  book  of 
the  National  Library  of  Ecuador  — the  “ History  of  the  Kingdom  of 
Quito,”  written  in  1789,  the  Jesuit  Padre  Velasco  takes  up  the  ques- 
tion of  the  origin  of  the  Indian  and  settles  it  — at  least  to  his  own  satis- 
faction. To  begin  with,  the  Church  has  declared  the  inhabitants  of  the 
New  World  “ rational,”  that  is,  descended  from  Adam  and  Eve.  That 
point  being  disposed  of,  it  follows  that  “ the  men  and  animals  who 
were  found  in  America  must  be  descendants  of  those  who  emerged 
from  Noah’s  ark;  for  does  not  the  Bible  say  that  all  the  world  was 
covered  with  water?  Even  granted,  for  the  sake  of  argument,”  con- 
tinues the  razor-minded  padre,  “ that  the  mountains  of  South  America 
protruded  a bit  above  the  surface  of  those  waters,  is  it  conceivable  that 
man  could  live  for  months  on  the  highest  peaks,  eating  snow,  drinking 
snow,  and  sleeping  in  snow?  Could  he  even  have  stood  up  for  nearly 
a year  on  those  pyramids  of  snow  and  ice?  ” I give  it  up.  Ask  some 
polar  explorer.  What  then  remains  of  the  argument  of  those  who  still 
cling  to  the  authoctonomous  heresy?  Obviously  there  is  no  other  re- 
course then  to  admit  that  the  ancestors  of  the  race  found  their  way  to 
America  by  the  Behring  Strait,  or  across  the  Pacific  from  the  shores 
of  Asia. 

Whatever  his  origin,  the  Indian  of  the  Andes  is  a distinct  reality, 
distinct,  indeed,  to  all  the  five  senses,  and  he  varies  little  throughout  the 
length  of  the  continent.  In  build  he  is  stocky  and  short,  very  muscular, 
with  the  strength  of  a mule  for  carrying  loads  on  his  back,  inde- 
fatigable on  foot,  but  weak  for  other  labor.  His  color  is  between  a 
tarnished  copper  and  a more  or  less  intense  bronze.  His  head  is  large ; 
his  neck  thick  and  long,  his  eyes  small,  black,  and  penetrating,  yet  at 
times  strangely  suggesting  those  of  a dead  fish ; his  nose  is  bulky,  and 
somewhat  flattened  and  spread ; his  teeth  are  white,  even,  and  always 
in  splendid  condition ; his  long  hair,  worn  sometimes  flying  loose,  some- 
times in  a single  braid  wound  with  red  tape,  is  jet-black,  without  luster, 
abundant,  perfectly  straight,  strong  and  coarse  as  that  of  a horse’s 
mane,  without  even  a tendency  to  baldness.  His  lips  are  thick  and 
heavy,  the  lower  one  somewhat  hanging,  giving  him  a suggestion  of 
sulkiness.  His  forehead  is  low,  his  mouth  large,  and  his  prominent 
cheek-bones  and  large  ears  give  his  face  an  appearance  of  great  width. 
He  is  broad-shouldered,  with  a chest  like  a barrel,  but  slender  of  leg 
and  small  of  foot.  He  grows  no  beard,  and  has  almost  no  hair  on  the 
body. 

Men  and  women  alike,  except  a rare  male  with  a sole  of  home-tanned 

149 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


leather  secured  by  thongs,  are  bare-legged  at  least  halfway  to  the 
knees,  their  feet,  like  calloused  hoofs,  marked  by  stony  trails  and  years 
of  barnyard  wallowing.  The  male  wears  a broad,  round,  light-gray 
hat  of  thick  felt,  a kind  of  pajama  shirt  or  blouse  of  fancily  colored 
calico,  or  lienzo,  a very  roomy  pair  of  “ panties  ” of  thinnest  white  cot- 
ton that  reach  anywhere  from  his  knees  to  halfway  to  his  undomesti- 
cated feet.  Besides  these  garments,  he  is  never  seen  without  his 
ruana,  or  poncho,  which  serves  him  as  a cloak  and  carry-all  by  day,  and 
as  a bed  and  covering  by  night.  This  is  always  of  some  startling,  crude 
color,  deep  red  predominating,  with  such  screaming  combinations  as 
magenta  and  purple,  carmine  and  yellow,  though  when  sufficiently  soiled 
and  sun-bleached,  the  old  rose  and  velvety  brown,  the  brick  red  or 
turquoise  blue,  take  on  all  the  soft  richness  of  Oriental  rugs.  It  is  this 
commonly  homespun  garment,  and  the  corresponding  one  of  the 
women,  that  make  Quito  such  a color-splashed  city. 

The  woman,  too,  copies  the  dress  of  her  ancestors  to  remote  genera- 
tions. She  wears  the  same  hat  as  the  male  — hat-pins  are  unknown  to 
her,  all  down  the  Andes  — a beltless  waist  of  coarse  cloth,  either  open, 
or  thin  and  ragged ; several  strips  of  colored  bayeta  (a  woolish  shoddy) 
wrapped  tightly  around  her  drafthorse  hips  from  waist  to  calves  in 
guise  of  skirt,  always  slit  open  on  one  side,  showing  an  inner  petticoat 
— once  white  — though  sometimes  in  striking  solid  colors,  in  marked 
contrast  to  the  outer  skirt ; and  a blanket,  smaller,  but  as  audible  in  hue 
as  the  poncho  of  the  male,  thrown  round  her  shoulders  like  a shawl. 
She  is  fond  of  gaudy  earrings  of  colored  glass  or  similar  rubbish, 
ranging  in  size  from  large  to  colossal ; from  one  to  a dozen  strings  of 
cheap  red  beads,  often  the  bean  of  a wild  plant  indigenous  to  the 
region,  hang  around  her  neck ; generally  brass  rings  adorn  every 
finger;  and  often  many  beads  are  wound  round  and  round  her  bare 
arms.  She  is  completely  devoid  of  feminine  charm.  She  needs  none, 
for  she  is  amply  worth  her  keep  as  a beast  of  burden. 

As  far  as  I know,  there  is  no  law  in  Quito  requiring  an  Indian  woman 
not  to  be  seen  without  a babe  in  arms,  or,  rather,  in  shawl ; but  if  one 
exists,  it  is  seldom  violated.  In  an  hour  I have  seen,  by  actual  count, 
more  than  three  hundred  female  aborigines  pass  my  window  in  the  calle 
Flores,  and  not  a score  of  them  but  bore  on  her  back  a child  of  from 
two  weeks  to  two  years  of  age,  to  say  nothing  of  several  other  bundles 
and  her  whirling  spindle.  When  the  infant  is  tiny,  it  is  carried  length- 
wise at  the  bottom  of  the  blanket-shawl  knotted  across  the  mother’s 
chest.  When  it  is  older,  it  is  tossed  or  climbs  astride  her  broad  back, 

150 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  EQUATOR 

lying  face  down,  with  legs  spread,  while  she  throws  her  outer  garment 
about  it,  ties  the  knot  on  her  chest  — or  on  her  forehead  if  the  child  is 
heavy  — and  trots  along  at  her  work  the  day  through,  without  the  least 
apparent  notice  of  the  offspring.  The  babe  falls  asleep,  or  gazes  with 
curious,  yet  rather  dull,  eyes  at  the  world  as  it  speeds  by,  peering  over 
the  mother’s  shoulder  like  an  engineer  from  his  cab,  eats  such  food  or 
refuse  as  falls  into  its  hands,  or  plays  with  the  mother's  tape-wound 
braid.  The  Indian  woman  never  carries  her  offspring  in  any  other 
manner  unless,  in  her  role  as  a common  carrier,  she  picks  up  a load  too 
bulky  or  heavy  to  place  the  infant  atop,  such  as  a bedstead,  a bureau, 
or  two  full-sized  sacks  of  wheat  — these  are  not  exaggerations,  but 
frequent  cargoes  — when  she  hangs  the  child  in  front,  in  the  concave 
of  her  figure,  like  a baby  kangaroo  in  the  maternal  pouch,  knotting  the 
supporting  garment  across  her  shoulders. 

The  youngest  baby  is  already  inconceivably  dirty,  yet  almost  al- 
ways robustly  healthly  in  appearance,  though  the  infant  mortality 
of  the  class  is  appalling.  It  is  an  unusual  experience  to  hear  an 
Indian  baby  cry.  From  its  earliest  years  it  seems  to  adopt  that  uncom- 
plaining attitude  toward  life  that  is  so  marked  a characteristic  of  the 
adults.  Though  she  treats  her  offspring  with  no  active  unkindness  — 
in  all  the  years  I spent  in  South  America  I have  never  seen  an  Indian 
mother  strike  a child  — the  aboriginal  woman  seems  to  endure  it 
passively,  like  any  other  burden  thrust  upon  her  from  which  there 
is  no  escape,  carrying  it  where  it  will  be  least  troublesome,  and  never,  at 
least  openly,  showing  any  caressing  fondness  for  it.  The  child  old 
enough  to  toddle  about  the  streets  often  remains  on  the  mother’s  back, 
as  if  to  hold  the  place  for  the  next  comer.  It  is  a common  experience 
to  hear  an  Indian  child  ask  in  a perfectly  fluent  tongue  for  a serving 
at  the  maternal  source  of  supply. 

There  is  scant  difference  in  appearance  between  the  two  sexes,  and 
none  whatever  in  their  labor,  except  that,  if  there  is  only  one  load,  the 
woman  carries  it,  and  the  baby  in  addition.  In  both  the  half-breed 
and  Indian  classes  the  women  are  more  uncleanly  than  the  men. 
Like  the  latter,  they  work  at  all  the  coarser  unskilled  tasks,  shoveling 
earth,  mixing  and  carrying  mortar,  cobbling  streets ; while  in  the  mat- 
ters of  loads  there  is  nothing  under  two  hundred  pounds  in  weight 
which,  once  on  their  backs,  they  cannot  jog  along  under  at  a kind  of 
limping  gait  that  seems  tireless.  Almost  any  day  the  furniture  and 
entire  possessions  of  some  moving  household  is  displayed  to  public 
gaze  as  it  jogs  through  town  on  the  backs  of  an  Indian  family. 

I5i 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


The  chief  water-supply  of  Quito  is  a constant  string  of  Indians  from 
the  fountain  opposite  the  government  palace,  with  huge,  red  earthen 
jars  sitting  on  their  hips  and  supported  by  a thong  across  the  fore- 
head. It  is  a commonplace  to  meet  an  Indian  carrying  the  gaudy 
image  of  some  saint  larger  than  himself.  Cheap  coffins  of  half- 
rotten  boards,  painted  sky-blue  or  pink  and  decorated  with  strips 
of  gilded  paper,  frequently  mince  past,  secured  by  the  brilliant  poncho 
of  the  carrier,  knotted  across  his  chest.  I had  occasion  one  day  to 
transport  a type-writer  a few  blocks.  The  Indian  prepared  to  sling 
it  on  his  back  with  a rope.  When  I objected  to  this  method,  I found 
that  the  fellow  not  only  could  not  carry  it  in  his  hands,  but  that 
he  could  not  lift  it  to  his  head.  When  I placed  it  there,  however, 
he  ambled  away  as  if  he  had  nothing  on  his  mind  but  his  hat. 

Frequently  an  entire  family  takes  a large  job,  such  as  carrying  a 
building  from  one  end  of  town  to  another,  adobe  brick  by  brick.  Such 
a one  passed  my  window  for  weeks.  All  day  long  they  dog-trotted 
back  and  forth  in  single  file  along  the  line  of  smooth-worn  flagstones 
in  the  middle  of  the  street,  their  bare  feet  making  absolutely  no  sound, 
never  a word  or  a sign  of  complaint  finding  outward  expression.  The 
man  and  woman  each  bore  the  same  number  of  mud  bricks  piled  on 
their  backs,  and  the  latter  always  carried  the  baby  in  her  pouch,  though 
they  made  a hundred  trips  a day.  Why  the  infant  could  not  have  been 
left  at  one  end  or  the  other  of  the  journey  it  was  hard  to  guess.  Two 
children,  one  a little  fellow  of  five  with  one  brick  on  his  back,  his 
brother  of  seven  or  eight  with  two,  toiled  all  day  long  between  father 
and  mother,  as  if  they  were  being  systematically  trained  for  the  only 
life  before  them. 

The  Andean  Indian  is  even  less  like  the  tall  and  haughty  redskin  of 
our  country  in  manner  than  in  appearance.  Compared  with  him,  the 
Mexican  Indian  is  self-assertive,  bold,  and  ferocious.  Silent  and  ab- 
stracted, he  takes  no  apparent  heed  of  what  goes  on  about  him.  Of 
phlegmatic  temperament,  a truly  wooden  equanimity  of  temper,  melan- 
choly, taciturn,  and  reserved,  he  is  noted  above  all  for  a distrust  that  is 
perhaps  natural,  but  is  more  likely  the  result  of  centuries  of  privations 
since  the  coming  of  the  Spaniards.  He  has  a blind  submission  to  au- 
thority, great  attachment  to  the  house  in  which  he  lives,  and  is  so 
cowardly  that  he  lets  himself  be  dominated  by  the  most  despicable 
members  of  other  races.  A complete  outsider  in  government  and 
public  affairs,  he  is  treated  by  the  rest  of  the  population  like  a domestic 
animal.  The  merchant  of  Quito  who  requires  a carrier  to  deliver 

152 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  EQUATOR 


some  bundle  does  not  wait  for  one  to  offer  himself.  He  steps  into  the 
street  and  snatches  the  first  Indian  who  passes,  though  he  be  on  his  way 
to  a dying  parent,  or  preparing  his  child's  funeral ; and  the  Indian  per- 
forms the  task  as  uncomplainingly  as  some  mechanical  device,  and  re- 
turns to  wait  perhaps  an  hour  or  two  for  the  few  cents  the  merchant 
chooses  to  give  him.  Only  when  he  is  drunk  does  the  aboriginal’s  man- 
ner change.  Then  he  is  garrulous  and  mildly  disorderly.  But  even  on 
a Saturday  afternoon,  when  the  highways  are  lined  with  Indians  of  both 
sexes  reeling  homeward,  the  gringo  passes  unnoticed,  in  marked  con- 
trast with  the  gantlet  of  insolence,  if  not,  indeed,  of  actual  danger, 
which  he  must  run  under  like  circumstances  in  the  highlands  of 
Mexico. 

The  newcomer’s  sympathy  for  the  Indian  of  Quito  gradually  evapo- 
rates with  the  discovery  that  he  is  utterly  devoid  of  ambition,  as  com- 
pletely indifferent  to  his  own  betterment  as  any  four-footed  animal. 
Pad  out  this  fact  with  all  its  details  and  ramifications,  discarding  en- 
tirely the  American’s  ingrown  tendency  to  imbue  every  human  being 
with  a striving  character,  and  the  hopelessness  of  the  Indian’s  condi- 
tion will  be  more  clearly  realized.  The  Government  of  Ecuador  gives 
scant  attention  to  the  education  of  the  aboriginals ; even  if  it  provided 
schools  and  forced  attendance,  there  would  still  remain  the  problem  of 
arousing  in  these  people  any  interest  in,  or  effort  for,  self-improve- 
ment. 

A simple  episode  will  go  far  toward  visualizing  the  temperament  of 
the  Indian  of  Quito,  and  perhaps  make  a bit  clearer  the  ease  with  which 
Pizarro  and  his  handful  of  tramps  overthrew  the  Empire  of  the  Incas. 
I had  gone  out  for  a stroll  one  afternoon  along  the  road  to  Gualla- 
bamba.  Some  three  miles  from  town  a light  rain  turned  me  back. 
There  were  no  houses  near,  but  numbers  of  Indians  were  going  and 
coming.  A short  distance  ahead  was  a group  engaged  in  noisy  con- 
tention. Suddenly  a handsome,  muscular  young  Indian  broke  away 
and  ran  toward  me,  his  long,  black  hair  streaming  out  behind  him.  At 
his  heels,  cursing,  came  three  cholos,  in  the  dark  hats,  more  sober 
blankets  and  trousers  of  their  caste,  with  shorn  hair  and  straggling 
suggestions  of  mustaches.  I was  not  armed  — one  does  not  trouble 
to  carry  weapons  about  Quito  — and  in  my  bespattered  road  garb  I 
had  certainly  no  appearance  of  protective  authority.  When  he 
reached  me,  however,  the  frightened  Indian,  instead  of  running  on, 
turned  as  sharply  as  about  a corner,  and  pattered  along  close  at  my 
heels,  breathing  quickly.  I continued  my  stroll,  while  the  drunken 

153 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


half-breeds,  far  more  muscular  than  I,  hovered  about  ten  steps  in 
the  rear,  crying: 

“Ah,  coward!  You  run  to  the  senor  for  protection!” 

Yet  not  a step  nearer  did  they  approach  during  the  furlong  or  more 
that  the  procession  lasted.  Then,  as  we  passed  the  entrance  to  an 
hacienda,  the  Indian  suddenly  sprinted  away  up  its  avenue  of  euca- 
lyptus-trees faster  than  the  cholos  could  follow.  When  they  overtook 
me  again,  one  protested  in  plaintive  tones : 

“ Ah,  senor,  ese  sinverguenza  de  Indio  did  not  deserve  your  pro- 
tection.” 

Then  they  fell  behind,  while  I,  who  had  been  an  entirely  passive 
actor  in  all  the  scene,  strolled  on  into  the  city.  It  would  be  hard  to 
imagine  a similar  incident  in  Mexico. 

This  Indian’s  older  daughter  knocked  at  my  door  one  day  to  say 
that,  as  it  was  “ Don  Panchito’s  ” birthday,  the  celebration  in  the  sala 
next  my  own  room  would  probably  keep  me  awake  all  night  anyway, 
and  had  I not  better  join  the  party.  By  eight  the  beating  of  the 
piano  had  begun.  When  I appeared,  “ Don  Panchito  ” took  me  on 
a tour  of  the  guests,  seated  in  solemn  quadrangle  around  the  four 
walls  of  the  room,  the  sexes  segregated.  The  South  American  has  a 
custom  which  might  well  be  imported  into  our  own  land,  to  the  relief 
of  frequent  embarrassment.  As  he  was  introduced,  each  man  rose, 
bowed  profoundly,  and  announced  his  own  name  in  clear-cut  tones, — 
“ Enrique  Burgos  de  Perez  y Silva,  servidor  de  usted.”  The  women 
remained  seated,  but  made  their  names  similarly  known.  A profes- 
sional pianist,  a patched,  dishevelled,  and  hungry-looking  young  man  of 
some  Indian  blood,  had  already  begun  a very  nearly  continuous  per- 
formance at  fast  time,  with  barely  two-minute  intervals  between  the 
half-hour  dances.  In  a corner  sat  motionless  all  the  evening  two  pro- 
fessional chaperons  — for  “ Don  Panchito  ” was  a widow  — sour- 
faced, sleepy-looking  old  women  of  none  too  immaculate  habits, 
wrapped  in  black  mantos  from  which  only  nose  and  eyes  protruded. 

There  were  no  dance  cards.  Each  pair  started  in  or  stopped  when 
they  saw  fit,  quite  irrespective  of  the  others.  A man  stepped  across 
the  room,  held  out  his  gloved  right  hand  to  a girl,  without  a word,  and 
she  rose  to  accept  an  invitation  that  apparently  could  not  be  refused  — 
at  least,  not  one  failed  to  accept  it,  though  some  of  the  more  attractive 
were  led  out  upon  the  floor  at  least  fifty  times  in  the  course  of  the  even- 
ing. Evidently  it  was  “ bad  form  ” to  carry  on  a conversation  out  of 
hearing  of  the  chaperon.  Neither  dancer  visibly  spoke  a word  until 

154 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  EQUATOR 


the  girl  wished  to  stop,  when  she  murmured  “ gracias  ” and  was  at 
once  returned  in  silence  to  her  seat.  As  the  evening  wore  on,  several 
young  fops  dropped  in,  alleging  conflicting  engagements  as  an  excuse 
for  their  tardiness,  and  joined  the  celebration  without  removing  their 
lavender  gloves,  which,  indeed,  the  chilliness  of  the  room  pardoned. 
One  of  the  newcomers,  in  particular,  stirred  up  the  ladies  to  almost 
human  expressions  of  interest.  He  was  son  of  the  Minister  of  the 
Interior,  just  back  from  Paris,  and  lost  no  opportunity  to  display  the 
wisdom  he  had  gleaned  in  the  “ Capital  of  the  World,” — a rather  sharp- 
cornered  French  and  an  authoritative  knowledge  of  new  and  more  com- 
plicated manners  of  hopping  about  the  floor  to  music.  At  frequent  in- 
tervals our  eight-year-old  Indian  slavey,  Mercedes,  familiarly  known  as 
“ Meech,”  arrived  with  fiery  drinks  in  which  we  toasted  “ Don  Pan- 
chito,”  even  the  young  girls  tossing  it  off  without  a tear.  At  mid- 
night the  festival  raged  at  its  height.  At  one  o’clock  we  sat  down  to 
dinner  in  a temperature  far  from  agreeable  to  those  of  us  who  did  not 
dance.  Then  the  celebration  broke  out  anew,  though  the  chaperons 
and  pianist,  and  even  “ Don  Panchito,’’  had  disappeared.  The  young 
fops  removed  their  gloves  and  took  turns  on  the  stool.  The  clock  was 
striking  four  when  I retired,  and  little  “ Meech  ” was  still  serving 
liquid  gladness  as  uncomplainingly  and  expressionlessly  as  ever. 
When  I awoke  at  eight,  she  had  just  finished  tidying  up  the  sala, 
and  was  beginning  her  regular  daily  labors. 

Gradually  we  made  the  acquaintance  of  various  celebrities.  There 
was  “ Chispa,”  for  instance,  the  little  Spanish  bull-fighter  who  gave  a 
benefit  and  “ last  final  performance  ” in  the  plaza  de  toros  each  Sun- 
day. The  royal  sport  of  Spain  is,  at  best,  a gloomy  pastime  in  Span- 
ish-America.  Even  when  skilled  toreadors  from  across  the  Atlantic 
are  to  be  had,  the  bulls  raised  in  the  Andean  highlands  are  so  manso 
that  the  game  degenerates  into  little  more  than  public  butchery.  The 
killing  of  horses  is  forbidden  in  the  bull-ring  of  Quito,  both  by  law 
and  because  of  the  high  price  of  those  rare  animals,  and  the  toreador 
is  not  permitted  to  stir  up  a sluggish  bull  by  exploding  banderillos  de 
fuego  on  his  flanks.  “ Chispa,”  however,  who  was  just  such  a 
“ spark  ” as  his  apodo  suggested,  would  have  enlivened  the  most  dreary 
entertainment,  though  his  companions  were  local  amateurs,  so  clumsy 
that  he  was  called  upon  to  save  the  life  of  each  a dozen  times  during 
each  corrida.  Each  succeeding  “ despedida  ” had  some  new  feature  to 
draw  recreation-hungry  Quito  within  the  circular  mud  walls.  One 
Sunday  the  program  announced  the  engagement  of  “ Hombres  de 

155 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 

Yerba  ” and  “ Hombres  Gordos  ” (“  Men  of  Hay  ” and  “ Fat  Men  ”), 
and  the  inventive  Spaniard  was  all  but  forced  to  lock  the  gates  against 
the  tailend  of  the  throng.  One  of  his  amateurs  was  bound  round  and 
round  with  green  alfalfa  and  set  in  the  center  of  the  ring.  The  bull, 
however,  either  was  not  hungry  or  in  no  mood  for  jests,  and  tossed 
the  helpless  fellow  scornfully  from  his  path.  The  “ Hombres  Gor- 
dos ” were  made  up  with  clown  faces  topped  by  silk  hats,  their  bodies 
padded  to  enormous  size  with  excelsior.  Still  the  protection  was 
not  sufficient.  One  was  thrown  so  savagely  that  the  audience  agreed 
he  had  been  killed  — until  the  evening  paper  announced  he  had  merely 
broken  a leg  and  several  ribs.  The  fat  man  is  no  more  beloved  in 
Quito  than  elsewhere,  and  the  merriment  went  on  unabated.  It  is 
quiteno  custom  for  the  matador  to  brindar  (dedicate  the  death  of 
each  bull)  to  some  celebrity  or  person  of  means  in  the  audience, 
tossing  the  favored  one  his  cap  to  hold  during  the  killing,  and  ex- 
pecting it  to  be  thrown  back  with  a roll  of  bills  in  proportion  to  the 
skill  of  the  coup  de  grace.  Toward  the  end  of  the  “ last  final  per- 
formances ” the  supply  of  local  “ personages  ” grew  so  low  that  the 
eye  of  “ Chispa,”  roving  around  the  circle,  fell  upon  Hays ; but  even 
as  he  opened  his  mouth  for  the  speech  of  dedication,  the  ex-corporal 
faded  from  public  view. 

Then  there  was  Umberto  Peyrounel,  our  first  really  and  truly,  flesh 
and  blood  “ andarin.”  Derived  from  the  Spanish  word  andar  (to 
walk),  the  term  is  used  in  the  Andes  to  designate  a foreigner  who 
travels  on  foot,  without  any  particular  excuse  for  traveling  at  all ; a 
peculiarly  Latin  type  of  tramp,  loving  to  attract  attention  and  making 
his  living  by  so  doing.  We  ourselves  had  often  been  styled  “ andar- 
ines  ” on  the  journey  from  Bogota,  though  this  genuine  article  scorn- 
fully rated  us  “ excursionistas.”  The  distinction  seems  to  be,  not 
whether  a man  “ andars  ” on  foot,  but  whether  he  makes  his  way  with- 
out using  his  own  money,  if  such  he  possesses. 

We  saw  Umberto  first  at  a Sunday  night  concert,  where  he  was  in- 
conspicuously amusing  himself  by  running  races  with  several  hundred 
newsboys  and  bootblacks  around  the  plaza  mayor.  A stocky  fellow, 
tall  as  Hays,  of  middle  age,  he  was  modestly  dressed  in  a suit  of  sky- 
blue  corduroy,  leather  leggings,  and  a velvet  cap  of  the  Dutch  fisher- 
man or  Quartier  Latin  style.  Across  his  chest  hung  a row  of  large 
medals ; a flaring,  wax-ended  mustache  all  but  touched  his  ears,  and 
his  luxurious  black  hair  hung  loose  almost  to  his  waist.  When  he 
called  on  us  next  morning  his  coiffure  was  done  up  in  a simple  maidenly 

156 


Probably  not  his  own  in  spite  of  the  circumstantial  evidence  The  undertaker's  delivery  wagon.  The  coffin  is  sky-blue  with 

against  him  gilt  trimmings 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  EQUATOR 

knot  at  the  back  of  his  head.  On  closer  examination  the  gleaming 
brass  medals  seemed  to  be  glorified  tobacco  tags.  He  announced  him- 
self the  son  of  Italian  parents,  born  in  the  Argentine,  of  a sect  corre- 
sponding to  the  Huguenots  of  France,  known  as  the  “ martyrs  of  Pied- 
mont.” Leaving  home  three  years  before,  he  had  walked  across  his 
native  land  to  Chile,  thence  to  Quito,  where  he  was  preparing  to  push 
on  to  Bogota.  To  the  people  along  the  way  — and  even  to  us,  until  he 
caught  the  gleam  in  our  eyes  — he  announced  that  two  great  dailies  of 
Buenos  Aires  and  New  York  had  offered  him  a prize  of  $100,000  to 
make  the  journey  on  foot  from  the  door  of  one  to  that  of  the  other. 
On  the  road  he  was  accompanied  by  a dog,  wore  silver-plated  spurs 
as  a sign  of  his  rank  as  a caballcro,  and  carried,  in  addition  to  a re- 
volver and  rifle,  some  forty  pounds  of  baggage,  most  of  which  con- 
sisted of  bulky  ledgers  filled  with  handwritten  statements  of  his 
arrival  and  departure  on  foot,  signed  by  every  corregidor,  alcalde,  or 
native  official  of  whatever  species,  by  merchants,  lawyers,  and  editors 
of  every  place,  large  or  small,  he  had  visited,  each  adorned  with  its  of- 
ficial seal.  This  collecting  of  signatures  was  no  mere  whim ; it  was  the 
customary  excuse  of  his  fellows  for  surreptitiously  appealing  to  charity. 
At  every  hamlet  he  opened  the  ledgers  — ostensibly  to  give  the  resi- 
dents the  pleasure*of  adding  their  names  to  the  roll  of  honor  — and  at 
the  psychological  moment  slipped  into  their  hands  a printed  card  bear- 
ing a subtle  plea  for  assistance  in  winning  his  great  “ prize.”  All 
genuine  “ andarines,”  Umberto  assured  us,  did  the  same,  and  he  berated 
us  soundly  for  not  having  adopted  the  custom. 

“ How  can  you  prove  to  the  public  that  you  have  made  the  journey 
on  foot,  if  you  do  not  have  the  testimonials  of  distinguished  persons 
along  the  way?”  he  cried,  scornfully. 

“ The  public  has  its  choice  of  believing  it  or  jumping  off  the  end 
of  the  dock,”  Hays  answered  for  both  of  us. 

In  plain  English,  Peyrounel  was  a beggar,  though  he  would  have 
been  shocked  beyond  words  to  hear  us  say  so.  He  called  himself  a 
“ Champion  of  God,”  a bitter  enemy  of  the  priesthood,  and  in  each 
town  of  importance  gave  a lecture  on  his  journey  and,  later  on,  “ if  the 
population  showed  enough  intelligence,”  a sermon.  The  religious 
fanatic  so  often  proves,  sooner  or  later,  to  be  in  a sexually  neurotic 
state  that  we  were  not  surprised  when,  several  days  later,  Peyrounel 
burst  out,  apropos  of  nothing: 

“Why  do  girls  always  become  enamored  of  strange  travelers?  No 
sooner  do  I enter  a town  than  several  maidens  fall  desperately  in  love 

157 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 

with  me.  I can't  be  expected  to  satisfy  them  all,  can  I ? One  has  one’s 
work  to  do.’’ 

“ Wooden-headed  ass  that  I am ! ” growled  Hays.  “ If  I ’d  only 
thought  to  grow  curls ! ” 

“ Between  you  and  me,  as  men  of  the  same  profession,”  went  on  the 
collector  of  signatures,  “ I don’t  mind  telling  you  that  I ride  now  and 
then  by  train  through  a bad  piece  of  country.  What ’s  the  use  of  walk- 
ing hundreds  of  hot  desert  miles,  when  the  people  will  never  know  the 

difference?  For  instance;  here,  under  the  seal  of  , it  says  that  I 

walked  all  the  four  hundred  miles  from  . Well,  I did  — on  a 

steamer  most  of  the  way.” 

In  short  the  argentino’s  mental  equipment  was  somewhat  out  of  re- 
pair. One  could  not  exactly  put  one’s  finger  on  the  loose  screw,  but  it 
could  frequently  be  heard  rattling.  The  following  Sunday  we  at- 
tended his  first  “ lecture.”  On  the  dismal  daytime  stage  of  Quito’s 
hitherto  lifeless  Teatro  Sucre  sat  Peyrounel,  utterly  alone  but  for  the 
faithful  dog  at  his  feet,  thrown  into  silhouette  by  an  uncurtained  win- 
dow at  the  back,  his  sky-blue  uniform  looking  more  absurd  than  ever, 
his  hair  hanging  in  long,  wet,  careful  curls  about  his  broad  shoulders. 
Quito  has  so  few  entertainments  that  it  will  endure  almost  anything 
particularly  if  no  admission  is  charged ; and  some  three  hnudred  men 
were  scattered  about  in  the  painfully  upright  seats,  when  the  “ an- 
darin  ” rose.  He  read  first  some  incomprehensible  rodomontade  on 
the  power  of  the  will,  then  drew  forth  a manuscript  purporting  to 
give  an  account  of  his  journey,  in  reality  strictly  confined  to  a list 
of  the  towns  he  had  visited,  with  the  height  of  each  above  sea-level. 
The  “ lecture  ” was  doubly  unsuccessful,  for  when  the  speaker  ended 
with  an  appeal  for  funds  to  continue  his  statistical  journey,  the  gather- 
ing stampeded  so  effectively  that  all  but  a few  had  escaped  when 
he  reached  the  door,  and  the  reward  of  his  labors  was  a bare  six 
dollars. 

“ Next  Sunday,”  he  announced,  when  we  met  him  in  the  plaza  that 
evening,  “ I am  going  to  give  the  public  of  Quito  the  benefit  of  my 
conclusions  on  suicide.  Suicide,  I shall  prove,  is  always  a prompting 
of  the  devil.  Therefore  it  cannot  be  the  prompting  of  God.  Ergo, 
a man  should  not  commit  suicide,  because  he  should  never  yield  to  the 
promptings  of  the  devil.” 

Truly  a Solomon  of  pure  reason  had  come  to  Quito.  Yet  somehow 
the  authorities,  always  backward  in  such  matters,  failed  to  take  ad- 

158 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  EQUATOR 

vantage  of  this  splendid  opportunity  to  give  the  Teatro  Sucre  another 
free  airing. 

Never  since  those  days  in  Quito  have  I heard,  the  oft-repeated  word 
“ andarin,”  than  the  picture  of  Peyrounel  and  his  curls  has  not  come 
to  mind.  However,  he  had  undoubtedly  covered  long  distances  on 
foot,  and  we  exchanged  many  a practical  hint  of  roadway  information. 
He  planned  to  visit  all  the  important  cities  of  the  United  States,  and 
to  reach  New  York  within  three  years.  His  letters  of  introduction 
already  included  many  to  American  officials ; he  carried,  for  instance, 
one  to  the  mayor  of  Seattle.  Being  an  experienced  traveler,  all  may 
have  gone  well  with  him  south  of  the  Rio  Grande.  But  beyond  it  lay 
dangers  he  did  not  suspect;  for  some  unromantic  justice  of  the  peace, 
unable  to  distinguish  between  an  “ andarin  ” and  a common  “ vag,” 
between  the  honorable  profession  of  gathering  seals  and  signatures, 
and  mere  begging,  may  have  the  cruelty  to  reward  him  with  the  no- 
torious “ year  and  a day.” 

On  October  tenth  there  was  an  eclipse  of  the  sun,  total  at  the 
Ecuador-Colombia  boundary,  and  visible  in  all  the  southern  hemi- 
sphere. In  the  days  of  the  Scyri  and  Incas  such  a phenomenon  was 
taken  as  a threat  that  the  end  of  the  world  was  at  hand ; a sign  that 
an  angry  god  was  abandoning  his  erring  people.  On  this  occasion 
many  of  the  less-educated  classes  remained  in  the  streets  all  night, 
for  an  earthquake  had  been  prophesied.  The  local  observatory  had 
assigned  a scientist  to  “ note  the  peculiar  actions  of  the  populace  and 
the  lower  animals  during  the  eclipse.”  It  came  toward  seven  in  the 
morning.  Gradually  the  brilliant  sun  disappeared,  until  only  the 
slightest  thread,  of  crescent  shape,  remained  visible ; the  world  grew 
dark  as  at  early  dusk  on  a heavily  clouded  evening,  then  slowly  lighted 
up  again  in  all  its  equatorial  magnificence.  Observers  reported  that 
a few  fowls  returned  to  roost ; the  curs  slinking  about  the  plaza  seemed 
for  a time  undecided  whether  to  seek  their  nightly  lairs.  But  the 
actions  of  the  populace  were  confined  to  the  incessant  smoking  of 
cigarettes  and  to  making  the  most  of  an  excuse  to  put  off  their  day’s 
task  as  long  as  possible  — neither  of  which  was  unusual  enough  to  be 
worthy  of  note.  The  majority,  unsupplied  with  smoked  glasses,  found 
this  no  handicap,  for  the  reflected  eclipse  in  the  plaza  pool  served  the 
same  purpose.  World  scientists  had  been  sent  to  many  of  the  larger 
South  American  cities  with  elaborate  photographic  equipment,  only  to 
find  their  long  journeys  wasted  because  of  clouds.  They  would  have 

159 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


done  better  to  have  come  to  Quito,  where  two  unscientific  vagabonds 
caught  excellent  pictures  of  the  phenomenon  in  mere  kodak  snap- 
shots. 

It  was  on  the  morning  of  November  eighteenth,  five  months  from 
the  day  we  had  sailed  together  from  the  Canal  Zone,  that  Hays  and 
I set  out  along  the  muddy,  cobbled  highway  to  the  railway  station, 
carrying  in  turn  a bundle  of  the  size  of  a suitcase.  By  7 :30  the 
former  corporal  of  police  had  taken  his  wooden  seat  in  the  dingy  little 
second-class  car,  and  had  stowed  his  belongings  under  it  well  out  of 
sight  of  the  collector ; for  extravagant  as  are  its  fares,  the  Guayaquil- 
Quito  Railway  allows  a second-class  passenger  only  fifteen  pounds  of 
baggage.  At  eight  the  tri-weekly  train  let  pass  unnoticed  its  scheduled 
hour  of  departure.  Several  stocky  Americans  of  the  type  easily  recog- 
nized as  “ railroad  men,”  and  as  many  English-speaking  negroes  could 
be  seen  shouldering  their  way  in  and  out  of  the  motley  throng.  The 
engineers  were  leathery-skinned  Americans ; the  conductors  fat,  burly 
Americans ; the  collectors  gaunt,  stringy,  dense-looking  young  English- 
men, and  the  brakemen  West  Indian  negroes  who  spoke  a more  fluent 
Spanish  that  their  superiors  and  were  better  “ mixers  ” among  the 
native  passengers.  After  a time  they  decided  to  repair  the  last  coach, 
and  lay  for  some  time  under  it,  tinkering  at  a brakeshoe.  Rumor  had 
it  that  this  was  only  a ruse ; that  the  engineer  assigned  to  the  run 
had  been  arrested  the  evening  before,  and  that  the  train  could  not 
leave  until  his  trial  was  over. 

Whatever  the  cause  for  delay,  it  ended  at  last,  and  with  a great 
snorting  and  straining  and  blowing  of  steam  the  little  old  “ Baldwin  ” 
began  to  drag  its  four  wagones  out  of  the  station  compound.  First 
came  a box-car,  crowded  inside  and  on  top  with  gente  del  pueblo ; 
then,  behind  the  baggage  and  mail  car,  the  densely-packed  second- 
class  ; and  finally  the  coach-de-luxe  with  a dozen  passengers,  most  of 
whom  would  hasten  to  take  their  lawful  place  in  the  car  ahead  as  soon 
as  they  could  escape  the  eyes  of  their  fellow-townsmen  thronging  the 
station  platform.  The  Indian  of  Ecuador  still  commonly  walks,  a 
fact  easily  explained  by  a glance  at  the  exorbitant  rate-sheet.  It  was 
only  by  dint  of  much  struggle  that  the  railroad,  reaching  Quito  four 
years  before,  bad  finally  settled  the  point  that  even  “ prominent  per- 
sons ” shall  pay  fare ; now  it  has  taken  the  offensive,  and  collects  cart- 
age even  on  the  bundles  and  fruit  the  passengers  are  accustomed  to 
stack  in  the  car  about  them.  The  engine  panted  asthmatically  to  sur- 
mount a two-foot  rise,  scores  of  Indians  and  cholos  running  alongside, 

160 


Almost  everything  that  moves  in  Quito  rides  on  the  backs  of  Indians 


An  Indian  family  driving  away  dull  care — and  watching  me  take  the  picture  of  a dog  down 

the  street 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  EQUATOR 


screaming  farewells  to  their  outward-bound  friends,  some  visibly 
weeping  for  the  quiteno  of  the  masses  considers  death  itself  little  less 
dreadful  than  departure.  Then  at  length  the  train  swung  round  the 
sandbank  cutting  and,  catching  a down-grade,  was  off  in  earnest,  and 
reluctantly  I saw  “ Senor  Lay-O-Ice  ” disappear  from  my  South 
American  adventures. 

The  attack  of  roaditis  had  seized  him  the  day  before.  With  no  task 
to  hold  him  in  Quito,  he  had  been  for  a time  content  to  spend  his 
days  at  his  favorite  occupation  of  sitting  on  a plaza  bench.  He  had 
even  paid  his  rent  well  in  advance,  that  he  might  have  an  anchor 
to  windward.  But  it  had  proved  a rope  of  sand  when  the  road  lure 
came  upon  him,  and  he  had  feverishly  tossed  together  his  indispensable 
junk  and  turned  his  face  toward  other  climes.  From  Guayaquil, 
“ unless  Yellow  Jack  or  Bubonic  beat  him  to  it,”  he  planned  to  push 
on  to  Cajamarca  and  Lima,  chiefly  by  sea,  then  to  strike  overland  to 
Cuzco.  Beyond  South  America  lay  various  nebulous  projects, — a 
year  around  the  Mediterranean,  a journey  through  Spain,  or  perhaps 
a return  to  the  Zone  to  earn  another  “stake”  with  which  to  journey 
to  the  Far  East,  there  to  adopt  the  yellow  robe  and  settle  down  to  the 
tranquil  life  of  studious  inactivity  he  loved  so  well. 

Thus  life  moved  on,  even  in  Quito.  “ Chispa  ” of  the  bullring  had 
taken  the  same  train,  feigning  a first-class  wealth  until  out  of  sight  of 
his  quiteno  admirers.  Peyrounel,  the  “ andarin,”  too,  was  gone,  dog, 
gun,  hair,  medals,  spurs  and  ledgers,  to  carry  back  to  Bogota  the  map 
that  had  piloted  us  southward.  Only  one  lone  gringo  descended  to  the 
city  in  the  folds  of  Pichinoha,  to  renew  the  task  that  still  forbade  him 
to  listen  to  the  siren  that  beckoned  him  on  over  the  encircling  horizon. 

To  pass  over  in  silence  its  uncleanliness  would  be  to  give  a false 
picture  of  Quito.  Only  its  altitude  saves  the  city  from  sudden  death. 
Its  personal  habits  are  indescribable;  I do  not  use  the  adjective  to 
avoid  the  labor  of  finding  one  less  trite,  but  because  no  other  could  be 
more  exact.  If  I described  in  detail  one  fourth  its  daily  insults  to  the 
senses,  no  reputable  publisher  would  print,  and  no  self-respecting 
reader  would  read  it.  The  city  is  surrounded  by  an  iron  ring  of 
smells  which  the  susceptible  stranger,  accustomed  to  the  moderate  de- 
cencies of  life,  can  pass  only  in  haste  and  trepidation.  The  condition 
of  the  best  kitchen  in  Quito  would  arouse  a vigorous  protest  from  an 
American  “ hobo.”  However  foppish  a quiteno  family  may  be  out- 
wardly, anybody  is  considered  fitted  to  the  task  of  washing  its  dishes 
or  waiting  on  its  tables.  Among  all  the  tramps  of  the  United  States 

161 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


I have  never  seen  one  so  filthy  as  the  human  creatures  that  hang  around 
hotel  dining-rooms,  or,  in  the  one  or  two  higher-priced  establishments, 
are  at  least  to  be  found  just  behind  the  scenes,  kicking  about  the  earth 
floor  the  rolls  which  the  waiter  a moment  later  religiously  lays  before 
the  guest  with  silver-plated  pincers.  Yet  clients  in  frock-coats  and 
outwardly  immaculate  garb  are  never  known  to  raise  a voice  in 
protest.  There  is  exactly  one  way  to  escape  these  conditions  in 
Ecuador,  and  that  is  to  keep  out  of  the  country.  A modern  Croesus 
would  be  forced  to  endure  the  same,  for  though  he  brought  his  own 
servants  and  even  his  food-supplies  with  him,  the  Eucadorian  would 
find  some  means  of  reducing  him  to  an  equality  of  condition,  if  only 
by  opening  the  supplies  in  customs  and  running  his  unwashed  hands 
through  them. 

Among  our  table  companions  were  lawyers,  university  professors, 
newspaper  editors,  commonly  with  several  rings  on  their  fingers ; yet 
rare  was  the  man  whose  finger-nails  were  not  in  deepest  mourning, 
or  whose  manners  were  not  befitting  a trough.  On  the  street  the  pass- 
ing of  the  women  was  usually  marked  by  an  all  but  overwhelming 
scent  of  the  cheap  and  pungent  perfumes  to  which  all  the  “ decente  ” 
class,  male  or  female,  is  addicted,  and  though  their  faces  were  daubed 
a rosy  alabaster,  it  was  rare  to  see  one  with  clean  hands,  or  without  a 
distinct  dead-line  showing  at  the  neck.  The  city  is  gashed  by  several 
deep  gullies  with  trickling  streams  at  their  bottoms,  which  serve  as 
general  dumping-grounds.  Not  even  the  carrion-crow  mounts  to  these 
heights,  and  the  city  is  denied  the  doubtful  services  of  this  tropical 
scavenger.  Though  the  world  .hears  little  of  it,  the  death-rate  from 
typhoid  alone  in  the  capital  rivals  that  of  “Yellow  Jacket”  in  Guaya- 
quil ; and  no  precautions  whatever  are  taken  against  it.  When  he  has 
noted  these  customs  and  worse,  the  visitor  will  be  startled  into  shrieks 
of  sardonic  laughter  when  he  runs  across  a large  two-story  building 
bearing  an  elaborately  painted  s'hield  announcing  it  the  “ Oficina  de 
Sanidad.” 

Yet  the  quiteno  is  extremely  jealous  of  any  offer  of  other  races  to 
do  for  him  that  which  he  gives  no  evidence  of  being  able  to  do  for 
himself.  Once  out  of  Colombia,  we  had  hoped  for  relief  from  the  per- 
petual growling  at  Americans,  chiefly  in  fiery  and  ill-reasoned  news- 
paper editorials.  Barely  had  we  crossed  the  frontier,  however,  than 
we  found  Ecuador  raging  with  a new  grievance.  The  Government 
had  recently  invited  the  doctor  in  charge  of  the  sanitation  of  Panama 
to  inspect  Guayaquil  and  bring  his  recommendations  to  the  capital. 

162 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  EQUATOR 


A strict  censorship  on  cable  messages  keeps  the  outside  world  largely 
in  ignorance  of  the  real  conditions  in  the  “ Pearl  of  the  Pacific.” 
Inside  the  country,  however,  the  real  state  of  affairs  is  more  nearly 
common  knowledge.  One  could  pick  almost  at  random  from  the  local 
newspapers  such  items  as : 

Guayaquil,  22d.  Yesterday  forty  cases  of  bubonic  plague  broke  out 
in  Public  School  No.  5.  There  are  seven  survivors. 

The  resident,  too,  soon  learns  the  real  motives  that  hamper  the 
sanitation  of  that  pest-hole.  Once  it  is  “ cleaned  up,”  argue  its  short- 
sighted merchants,  foreign  competitors  will  flock  in  upon  them.  As  to 
themselves,  they  are,  with  rare  exceptions,  immune  to  the  two  plagues 
for  which  the  port  is  famous,  having  recovered  from  them  at  some 
earlier  period  of  life.  Those  who  have  not  recovered  have  no  voice 
in  the  matter.  There  are  even  foreign  residents  who  bend  their 
energies  to  upholding  this  barrier  to  competition. 

These  interests  now,  abetted  by  unseen  European  elements  foster- 
ing the  discontent,  and  the  eagerness  of  the  opposing  party  to  make 
political  capital  out  of  any  cloth,  whole  or  otherwise,  had  stirred  the 
noisy  little  native  papers  into  a furor,  genuine  or  financed,  against  the 
Government.  The  people,  in  their  turn,  had  worked  themselves  into  the 
conviction  that  the  invitation  was  only  an  opening  wedge  of  the  “ Colos- 
sus of  the  North”  to  gain  a hand  in  the  rule  of  the  country,  which  it 
is  always  the  part  of  the  opposition  papers  to  paint  as  imminent.  We 
had  not  been  long  in  Quito  when  the  attitude  of  the  populace  grew  so 
serious  that  a joint  meeting  of  both  houses  of  congress  was  called  to 
explain  the  government  view  of  the  transaction.  The  diplomatic  corps 
was  present  in  force,  and  as  much  of  the  public  as  could  find  standing- 
room  after  the  two  houses  had  been  seated  in  the  largest  chamber  avail- 
able in  the  government  palace.  The  diminutive  old  Minister  of  For- 
eign Affairs,  who  had  lived  abroad  long  enough  to  acquire  a point  of 
view,  explained  the  exact  truth  of  the  situation  as  clearly  as  a disin- 
terested foreigner  might  have  done.  But  neither  congress  nor  the 
populace  would  hear  his  reasoning.  The  latter  hooted  him  vocifer- 
ously, calling  him  “Yanqui!”  and  accusing  him  of  being  in  the  pay 
of  the  United  States.  The  congressmen  rose  one  after  another  to 
charge  him  with  fostering  a conspiracy  to  surrender  Ecuador  to  the 
Yankees,  with  many  references  to  the  “ beegee  steekee,”  and  the 
meeting  ended  with  the  roar  of  a bull-necked  senator: 

163 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


“ Undoubtedly,  Senor,  we  want  Guayaquil  sanitated ; but  we  want  it 
sanitated  by  Latin  Americans.” 

The  pesuna  and  other  evidences  of  sanitary  notions  of  the  crowd 
that  hemmed  us  in  gave  the  speech  a ludicrousness  that  none  but  an 
enraged  partizan  could  have  missed.  But  that  night  the  little  Minister 
of  Foreign  Affairs  resigned,  and  when  morning  broke  he  had  disap- 
peared. 

For  all  the  handicap  of  the  complete  absence  of  factories  and  street- 
cars, Quito  might  easily  lay  claim  to  the  world’s  championship  in  noise. 
The  din  from  its  church-towers  alone  would  bring  it  one  of  the  first 
prizes.  It  is  pleasant  to  sit  out  on  a sunny  hillside  listening  to  the 
music  of  ringing  church-bells  as  it  is  borne  by  on  tbe  Sunday  morning 
breeze ; but  in  Quito  they  are  neither  bells  nor  are  they  rung.  In  tone 
they  suggest  suspended  masses  of  scrap-iron,  and  there  is  not  a bell- 
rope,  as  we  understand  the  word,  in  the  length  and  breadth  of  the 
Andes.  Barely  has  midnight  passed,  when  Indians,  hired  for  the 
nefarious  purpose,  and  mobs  of  street  urchins  eager  for  the  oppor- 
tunity, climb  into  the  church-towers  and,  catching  the  enormous 
clappers  by  a rope-end,  beat  and  pound  as  if  each  was  vying  with  the 
others  in  an  attempt  to  reproduce  the  primeval  chaos  of  sound,  ceasing 
only  when  they  drop  from  exhaustion.  No  corner  of  the  city  is  free 
from  the  metallic  uproar.  Santa  Catalina  tower  was  a bare  hundred 
yards  above  my  pillow,  and  I know  scarcely  a block  of  the  town 
over  which  does  not  rise  at  least  one  such  source  of  torture,  hung 
with  at  least  half  a dozen  bells  — to  use  the  word  loosely  — of 
varying  sizes  and  degrees  of  discordance.  Once  awakened,  the  city  is 
never  permitted  to  fall  asleep  again.  By  the  time  it  has  begun  to  doze 
off  once  more,  the  ringers  have  recovered,  and,  taking  up  their  joyful 
task  with  renewed  vigor,  repeat  the  performance  at  five-minute  in- 
tervals until  sunrise,  and  often  far  into  the  day. 

This  has  disturbances  of  its  own.  The  game-cocks,  which  no  self- 
respecting  cholo  would  be  without,  challenge  one  another  shrilly  from 
their  respective  patios ; that  moment  is  rare  when  a child  is  not 
squalling  at  the  top  of  its  voice,  the  mother,  after  the  passive  way  of 
quitenos,  making  no  effort  to  silence  it ; cholos  whistle  all  day  long 
at  their  labors  or  pastimes ; men  and  boys  habitually  call  one  another 
by  ear-splitting  finger-whistles ; ox-carts,  mule-trains,  or  laden  donkeys 
refuse  to  move  unless  several  arrieros  trot  behind  them  incessantly 
screaming  and  whistling;  droves  of  cattle  are  led  through  the  streets 
by  an  Indian  blowing  a bocina,  a horn-like,  six-foot  length  of  bamboo ; 

164 


The  street  by  which  one  leaves  Quito  on  the  tramp  to  the  south.  In  the  background  the 
church  and  monastery  of  Santo  Domingo 


Dong  before  Edison  thought  of  his  poured-cement  houses,  the  Indians  of  the  Andes  were 
building  their  fences  in  a similar  manner.  In  the  regions  where  rain  is  frequent 
they  are  roofed  with  tiles  or  thatch;  on  the  desert  coast  further  south  the 
tops  afford  a place  of  promenade  sometimes  miles  in  length 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  EQUATOR 


unoccupied  youths  like  nothing  better  than  to  kick  an  empty  tin  can 
up  or  down  the  cobbled  street ; every  schoolboy  on  his  way  home  or  to 
school  twice  a day  takes  a big  copper  coin,  or  in  lieu  thereof  an  iron 
washer,  and  throws  it  at  every  cobblestone  of  his  route  in  a local  game 
of  “ hit  it  ” ; the  barking  of  dogs  never  ends ; every  Indian  who  loses 
a distant  relative,  or  who  can  concoct  some  other  fancied  cause  for 
grief,  sits  on  the  sidewalk  just  out  of  reach  of  the  contents  of  one’s 
slop-bucket,  rocking  back  and  forth,  and  burdening  the  air  with  a 
mournful  wail  that  rises  and  falls  in  cadenced  volume  for  unbroken 
hours  iron-tired  coaches  clatter  over  the  uneven  cobbles ; every  native 
on  horseback  must  show  off  to  his  admiring  friends  and  the  fair  sex  in 
general  by  forcing  his  animal  to  canter  and  capriole  up  and  down  the 
line  of  flagstones  in  the  middle  of  the  narrow  street;  three  blind  news- 
boys, brothers  indistinguishable  one  from  another,  appear  in  succession, 
pausing  every  few  yards  to  bellow  in  deepest  bass  a complete  summary 
of  the  day’s  news,  as  if  they  were  reading  all  the  headlines  of  the  papers 
they  carry  for  sale ; and  to  it  all  the  church-bells  add  their  never  broken 
clanging.  Apparently  there  is  no  law  against  disturbing  the  peace ; 
without  the  power  to  silence  the  church-towers  it  would  be  useless,  at 
best. 

In  those  rare  moments  around  midnight  when  the  city  threatens  to 
fall  silent,  it  is  the  police  themselves  that  tide  it  over.  An  officer’s 
whistle  screeches  at  a corner,  to  be  answered  down  block  after  block, 
until  it  all  but  dies  out  in  the  distance ; then  back  it  comes,  and  con- 
tinues unbrokenly  until  the  church-bells  drown  it  out.  Not  only  that, 
but  he  is  a rare  policeman  who  does  not  while  away  the  night  and  keep 
up  his  courage  by  playing  discordant  tunes  on  his  whistle  whenever  it 
is  not  in  official  use. 

To  add  to  its  discordance,  Quito’s  voices,  due  perhaps  to  some  cli- 
matic condition,  are  often  distressing,  particularly  the  shrill,  raspy  ones 
of  the  women  of  the  masses,  who  have  somewhere  picked  up  the  habit 
of  shrieking  whenever  they  have  anything  to  say  — which  is  often. 
Unlike  Bogota,  Quito  has  a very  faulty  pronunciation.  The  sound 
“ sh,  ’ for  instance,  is  frequent  in  the  Quichua  dialect  of  the  region, 
and  though  not  all  quitenos  speak  the  aboriginal  tongue,  the  sound  has 
crept  into  their  Spanish,  and  they  tack  it  on  at  every  opportunity  — 
“ A ver-sh,  Nicanor-sh.”  “ Le  voy  a llamar-sh.”  As  in  all  South 
America,  the  town  has  the  unpleasant  habit  of  hissing  at  any  one  whose 
attention  is  desired,  and  the  word  **  pues  ” has  been  cut  down  to  a mere 
“ pss  ” to  be  hooked  on  whenever  possible : — “ Si,  pss ! Va  venir-sh 

165 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 

manana,  pss.”  The  “11”  has  become  a French  “j,”  as  in  Central 
America  and  Panama,  so  that  a street  is  not  a calle  but  a “ caje,”  a key 
is  a “ jave,”  and  the  newcomer  will  have  difficulty  in  recognizing  the 
place  mentioned  as  “ Beja-Coja,”  however  familiar  he  may  be  with  the 
Bella  Colla.  Many  localisms  and  Quichua  words  have  found  place  in 
the  general  speech.  A baby  is  always  a “ guagua  ” (wawa),  fre- 
quently corrupted  with  a Spanish  diminutive  to  “ guaguita  ” ; a boy  is 
more  often  a “ huambra  ” than  a muchacho ; and  the  traveler  who  does 
not  know  the  aboriginal  term  “ huasi-cama  ” would  have  difficulty  in 
referring  to  the  Indian  house-guard  and  general  servant  of  the  lower 
patio. 

But  when  its  noise  grows  overwhelming  and  its  picturesqueness  pales 
to  mere  uncleanliness,  the  stout-legged  visitor  has  only  to  climb  over 
the  outer  crust  of  Quito  in  almost  any  direction  to  revel  in  the  stillness 
and  feast  his  eyes  on  vistas  of  rolling  valleys  and  mountains,  fresh 
spring-green  to  the  very  snow-line.  A path,  for  instance,  zigzags  up 
the  falda  of  Pichincha,  steeper  than  any  Gothic  roof,  through  the 
scattering  of  red-tiled  Indian  huts  called  Guarico,  and  climbs  until  all 
Quito  in  its  Andean  pocket  sinks  to  a toy  city  far  beneath.  Another 
road  mounts  doggedly  round  and  round  mountain-spurs  and  headlands 
until  it  is  lost  in  clouds,  and  only  the  immediate  world  underfoot  re- 
mains visible.  The  air  grows  almost  wintry ; oxen  and  Indian  women, 
and  now  and  then  a man  of  the  same  downcast  race,  come  hobbling 
down  out  of  the  mist  above,  with  bundles  of  cut  brush  on  their  backs. 
Far  up,  the  road  swings  around  on  the  brink  of  things,  pauses  a 
moment  as  if  to  gather  courage,  then  pitches  headlong  down  out  of 
sight  into  a light-gray  void,  as  through  a curtain  shutting  off  the 
“ Oriente,”  the  hot  lands  and  unbroken  forests  of  eastern  Ecuador,  a 
totally  different  world,  where  the  Amazon  begins  to  weave  its  network, 
and  “ wild  ” Indians  roam  untrammeled. 


1 66 


CHAPTER  VII 


DOWN  VOLCANO  AVENUE 

ON  the  morning  of  February  eighth,  “ Meech  ” called  me  at  five. 

I had  already  been  some  time  awake,  such  was  the  excitement 
of  so  unusual  an  event  as  going  a journey.  The  morning 
mists  had  only  begun  to  clothe  the  flanks  of  Pichincha  when  I broke 
the  clinch  of  “ Don  Panchito’s  ” last  abraso  and  creaked  away  down 
the  cobbles  of  Calle  Flores  and  across  the  Plaza  Santo  Domingo  in  the 
hob-nailed  mining-boots  suited  to  the  long,  stony  trail  and  the  rainy 
season  ahead.  The  remnant  of  my  letter  of  credit  I had  turned  into 
gold  sovereigns  and  sewed  them  in  the  band  of  my  trousers ; on  my 
back  were  my  worldly  — or  at  least  my  South  American  — posses- 
sions, including  the  awkward  bulk  of  the  developing-tank  packed  with 
films  and  chemicals.  That  day  had  passed  when  I dreamed  of  driving 
an  Indian  carrier  before  me,  and  experience  had  taught  me  not  to 
risk  the  assistance  of  the  mails.  Thus  the  world  roamer  must  leave 
behind  in  turn  each  dwelling-place,  after  growing  somewhat  attached 
to  it,  for  all  its  faults,  to  go  its  way  alone  again  as  in  the  past,  glad  — 
or  merely  sorry  — when  once  in  a while  the  cable  brings  him  a 
whisper  of  it,  as  from  some  former  half-forgotten  existence. 

It  was  a familiar  route  for  the  first  few  miles.  Now  and  again  I 
overtook  Indians  carrying  enormous  loads  of  tinajas,  dull-red  earthen 
jars  and  pots  of  all  sizes  enclosed  in  a kind  of  fish-net,  often  topped 
by  a great  roll  of  ester  as,  mats  made  of  lake-reeds  which  serve  the 
carriers  as  beds.  Men  and  women  alike  raised  their  hats  to  me  and 
mumbled  some  obsequious  greeting.  They  were  bound  for  Latacunga 
market,  several  days  distant  from  their  villages ; yet  even  on  so  long 
a journey,  rare  was  the  woman  from  whose  load  did  not  peer  the  head 
of  a baby.  Lower  down,  inhabited  haycocks  and  huts  of  swamp-grass 
centered  in  beautiful  potato  fields,  red  or  purple  with  blossoms.  A 
cherry-tree,  here  called  by  the  Quichua  term  capult,  producing  a fruit 
larger  but  not  unlike  our  “ choke-cherry,”  alternated  with  what  looked 
like  the  Canadian  thistle. 

Three  hours  later,  near  the  eucalyptus  grove  of  the  Flores  estate 
that  marks  Quito’s  southern  sky-line,  I topped  the  ridge  that  marked 
my  hitherto  furthest  south.  The  long  pile  of  Pichincha,  its  three 

167 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


peaks  now  standing  sharply  forth,  still  lay  close  beside  me,  the  rolling 
green  lower  ridges  subsiding  into  the  mountain  lap  where  Quito,  like 
a tiny  ant’s  city,  still  lay  visible,  the  Panecillo  that  bulks  so  large  from 
the  central  plaza  sunk  to  an  insignificant  mole-hill.  Beyond,  far 
across  it,  hovered  the  hazy-blue  ranges  of  the  north ; Cayambe  reso- 
lutely astride  the  equator,  pointed  Cotacache,  streaked  near  the  top 
with  new-fallen  snow,  piercing  the  transparent  highland  sky.  For  a 
long  time  thereafter,  as  often  as  I topped  a land-billow,  I kept  getting 
little  broken  glimpses  of  the  town  from  the  ever-rising  world,  until  at 
last,  toward  noon,  as  a mighty  mountain  wave  tossed  me  high  on  its 
crest,  the  view  of  the  city  of  the  equator  flashed  forth  a moment  more; 
then  Quito  and  all  its  surroundings  sank  away  into  the  irretrievable 
past. 

Before  me  lay  a new  world.  With  the  leisurely  dignity  of  its 
builder,  Garcia  Moreno,  the  highway  descended  into  a great  distance- 
blue  hoya,  one  of  those  saucer-shaped  valleys  that  abound  all  down 
Ecuador’s  avenue  of  volcanoes.  Occasionally  a horseman  in  shaggy 
goatskin  trousers  stared  curiously  at  me ; now  and  then  there  passed  a 
file  of  donkeys  under  sheet-iron  roofs, — a cargo  of  corrugated  iron, 
the  importer  of  which  still  prefers  this  primitive  transportation  to  the 
more  hasty  railroad  with  its  startling  freight  charges.  Dandelions  and 
white  clover  flecked  the  ever-green  fields ; frogs  sang  their  bass  chorus 
in  many  a brook  and  pdntano.  Here  the  way  followed  more  or  less 
the  route  of  the  great  military  highway  of  the  Incas.  There  were  two 
of  these;  one  of  the  llanos,  or  lowlands  of  the  coast,  and  this  more 
famous  one  along  the  crest  of  the  cordillera,  built  during  several  reigns 
and  finished  under  Huayna  Ccapac. 

Near  the  village  of  Macachi,  twenty-one  miles  from  the  capital,  I 
turned  aside  to  the  hacienda  of  a quiteno  acquaintance.  He  was  a boy 
of  eighteen,  scion  of  one  of  the  old  “ best  families  ” of  Ecuador,  who 
have  kept  their  Spanish  blood  free  from  mixture,  to  whom  had  recently 
fallen  the  ownership  and  management  of  an  enormous  tract  of  his  little 
country.  Educated  in  our  own  land,  he  spoke  a slow,  pedantic  Eng- 
lish. Among  his  equals,  he  was  soft-spoken  almost  to  the  point  of 
diffidence.  But  his  voice  was  commanding  enough  when  he  gave 
orders  to  his  mayordomo  or  escribante,  or  to  any  of  the  hundred  In- 
dians who  lived  clustered  about  the  central  hacienda  house,  all  of 
whom  addressed  him  as  “ Su  Merced”  (Your  Grace)  and  kowtowed 
as  often  as  he  looked  at  them,  as  their  ancestors  might  have  done  to  the 
imperial  Scyri.  Before  the  sun  set,  we  had  time  to  ride  across  a part 

168 


Typical  huts  of  the  pdramo  of  Tiopullo,  a bleak,  bare  mountain-top  across  which  the  high- 
way to  the  south  hurries  on  its  way  to  the  warmer  valleys  beyond 


Beyond  the  pdramo  of  Azuay  the  trail  clambers  over  broken  rock  ledges  into  the  town 

of  Canar 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


peaks  now  standing  sharply  forth,  still  lay  close  beside  me,  the  rolling 
green  lower  ridges  subsiding  into  the  mountain  lap  where  Quito,  like 
a tiny  ant’s  city,  still  lay  visible,  the  Panecillo  that  bulks  so  large  from 
the  central  plaza  sunk  to  an  insignificant  mole-hill.  Beyond,  far 
across  it,  hovered  the  hazy-blue  ranges  of  the  north ; Cayambe  reso- 
lutely astride  the  equator,  pointed  Cotacache,  streaked  near  the  top 
with  new-fallen  snow,  piercing  the  transparent  highland  sky.  For  a 
long  time  thereafter,  as  often  as  I topped  a land-billow,  I kept  getting 
little  broken  glimpses  of  the  town  from  the  ever-rising  world,  until  at 
last,  toward  noon,  as  a mighty  mountain  wave  tossed  me  high  on  its 
crest,  the  view  of  the  city  of  the  equator  flashed  forth  a moment  more ; 
then  Quito  and  all  its  surroundings  sank  away  into  the  irretrievable 
past. 

Before  me  lay  a new  world.  With  the  leisurely  dignity  of  its 
builder,  Garcia  Moreno,  the  highway  descended  into  a great  distance- 
blue  hoy  a,  one  of  those  saucer-shaped  valleys  that  abound  all  down 
Ecuador’s  avenue  of  volcanoes.  Occasionally  a horseman  in  shaggy 
goatskin  trousers  stared  curiously  at  me ; now  and  then  there  passed  a 
file  of  donkeys  under  sheet-iron  roofs, — a cargo  of  corrugated  iron, 
the  importer  of  which  still  prefers  this  primitive  transportation  to  the 
more  hasty  railroad  with  its  startling  freight  charges.  Dandelions  and 
white  clover  flecked  the  ever-green  fields ; frogs  sang  their  bass  chorus 
in  many  a brook  and  pantano.  Here  the  way  followed  more  or  less 
the  route  of  the  great  military  highway  of  the  Incas.  There  were  two 
of  these ; one  of  the  llanos,  or  lowlands  of  the  coast,  and  this  more 
famous  one  along  the  crest  of  the  cordillera,  built  during  several  reigns 
and  finished  under  Huayna  Ccapac. 

Near  the  village  of  Macachi,  twenty-one  miles  from  the  capital,  I 
turned  aside  to  the  hacienda  of  a quiteno  acquaintance.  He  was  a boy 
of  eighteen,  scion  of  one  of  the  old  “ best  families  ” of  Ecuador,  who 
have  kept  their  Spanish  blood  free  from  mixture,  to  whom  had  recently 
fallen  the  ownership  and  management  of  an  enormous  tract  of  his  little 
country.  Educated  in  our  own  land,  he  spoke  a slow,  pedantic  Eng- 
lish. Among  his  equals,  he  was  soft-spoken  almost  to  the  point  of 
diffidence.  But  his  voice  was  commanding  enough  when  he  gave 
orders  to  his  mayordomo  or  escribante,  or  to  any  of  the  hundred  In- 
dians who  lived  clustered  about  the  central  hacienda  house,  all  of 
whom  addressed  him  as  “ Su  Merced  ” (Your  Grace)  and  kowtowed 
as  often  as  he  looked  at  them,  as  their  ancestors  might  have  done  to  the 
imperial  Scyri.  Before  the  sun  set,  we  had  time  to  ride  across  a part 

1 68 


Typical  huts  of  the  pdramo  of  Tiopullo,  a bleak,  bare  mountain-top  across  which  the  high- 
way to  the  south  hurries  on  its  way  to  the  warmer  valleys  beyond 


Beyond  the  paramo  of  Azuay  the  trail  clambers  over  broken  rock  ledges  into  the  town 

of  Canar 


DOWN  VOLCANO  AVENUE 


of  the  estate.  It  lay  somewhat  too  high  for  wheat,  distinctly  so  for 
corn.  Except  for  the  cattle  that  flecked  the  upland  fields  far  and 
wide,  the  potato  was  most  at  home.  Fourteen  distinct  varieties  of  this 
native  tuber  of  the  Andes,  several  of  them  unknown  in  the  North,  grew 
on  the  hacienda.  In  one  field  women  were  digging  potatoes  large  as 
small  muskmelons,  though  nearby  were  other  patches  still  red  or  purple 
with  blossoms. 

The  average  wage  of  the  Indian  peons  was  five  cents  a day,  with 
huasi-pongo, — space  for  their  miserable  chozas  in  which  the  only 
furniture  consisted  of  a few  odds  and  ends  of  home-made  pottery  and 
some  sheepskins  which,  spread  on  the  earth  floor  by  night,  served  the 
family,  its  guinea-pigs  and  mangy  curs,  as  bed.  The  women  and  chil- 
dren worked  for  nothing,  wages  being  reckoned  by  family  rather  than 
individually,  except  that  the  women  who  milked  the  cows  were  each 
paid  a dollar  a month.  In  reality,  the  Indians  were  serfs  of  the  estate. 
When  first  hired,  they  are  enganchados,  “ hooked  ” by  a labor  agent, 
and  having  spent  their  “ advance  ” in  a prolonged  chicha  debauch,  must 
often  be  arrested  and  forced  to  carry  out  their  part  of  the  contract, 
usually  remaining  for  years,  if  not  a lifetime,  in  debt  to  the  hacendado. 
It  would  be  an  error,  however,  to  look  upon  their  condition  from  our 
northern  point  of  view.  Any  custom  taken  out  of  its  native  environ- 
ment has  a far  more  serious  aspect  than  the  reality  warrants.  The 
Indian,  trained  during  many  generations  of  Inca  rule  to  avoid  all 
personal  initiative  or  responsibility,  accepts  by  choice  this  patriarchal 
arrangement.  The  majority  had  been  attached  to  the  hacienda  since 
birth ; giving  the  community  the  aspect  of  one  immense  family.  Each 
household  had  its  little  plot  of  ground  for  its  own  garden,  and  the 
privilege  of  pasturing  a small  flock  or  herd.  Yet  the  owners  have 
the  best  of  the  bargain.  Nearer  the  capital  were  estates  where  en- 
ganchados Indians  made  adobe  bricks  at  ten  cents  a day,  with  huasi- 
pongo  and  food,  making  daily  some  three  hundred  each,  which  the 
owner  sold  at  seventy-five  cents  a hundred. 

The  snow-peak  of  Sincholagua  and  the  rugged,  ice-capped  ridge  of 
Ruminaui  faced  the  hacienda.  Though  little  higher,  the  place  was  in- 
finitely colder  than  Quito  in  its  mountain  pocket,  for  here  we  caught 
the  full  sweep  of  the  winds  off  the  ice-fields.  By  dark,  we  were 
both  huddled  in  the  hacienda  dining-room,  bleak  and  comfortless  in 
spite  of  its  extravagant  trinkets  from  the  outer  world.  The  peons, 
for  all  their  awe  of  their  youthful  lord,  could  not  deny  themselves  the 
pleasure  of  grouping  noiselessly  before  the  door  as  we  ate,  listening  to 

169 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


the  strange  tongue  — not  Quichua,  stranger  still,  not  even  Spanish  — 
which  their  erudite  master  spoke  with  this  traveler  from  unknown 
parts,  who  came  on  foot,  carrying  his  own  load,  like  any  Indian.  The 
crack  of  the  door  grew  ever  wider,  the  broad,  expressionless  faces  ever 
more  numerous,  until  a draft  of  the  bitter  mountain  night  air  caused 
“ His  Grace  ” to  glance  up  in  annoyance.  Both  crack  and  faces  dis- 
appeared silently  and  suddenly,  but  came  again  many  times  before 
we  each  crawled  early  under  four  heavy  blankets. 

Next  morning  the  highway,  no  longer  cobbled,  but  wide  and  smooth, 
without  wheeled  traffic,  soon  brought  snow-clad  Illinaza  into  full 
sight  before  me.  So  skillfully  did  it  bear  me  upward  that  by  noon  I 
was  crossing  the  great  paramo  of  the  Nudo  de  Tiopullo,  without  the 
consciousness  of  having  climbed  at  all.  The  Andean  paramo,  for 
which  we  have  no  exact  English  word,  is  not  the  sharp  mountain  peak 
my  imagination  had  pictured,  but  is  used  of  any  broad  plain  so  lofty 
that  not  even  the  hardy  Indian  will  live  upon  it,  where  qninua,  most 
cold-blooded  of  domestic  plants,  refuses  to  grow,  a drear  treeless  upland 
covered  only  with  a tough  brown  bunch-grass  that  gives  it  somewhat 
the  aspect  of  our  virgin  prairies.  To  a northerner  in  motion,  it  was 
not  uncomfortable  by  sunshiny  day,  but  no  one  passes  these  lofty  plains 
at  night  by  choice.  Only  a rare  shepherd’s  shelter  of  stones  and  ichu 
dots  the  cold-brown  immensity.  The  shivering  highway  hurried  due 
south  across  it,  bringing  to  view  another  sea-blue  hoyo  and,  barely 
pausing  for  a last  glance  back  at  the  faint  peak  of  Cotacache  and  the 
long  bulk  of  Pichincha,  grown  mere  parts  of  a broad,  hazy,  tilted 
horizon,  raced  downward  into  the  softer  valley. 

Some  seventy-five  miles  south  of  Quito  begins  a veritable  desert. 
From  a distance  the  ranges  to  right  and  left  seem  green,  yet  the 
ascending  valley  grows  so  dry  and  arid  that  even  the  scanty  scrub  trees 
die  of  thirst.  At  the  top  of  a barren  divide  I met  head-on,  panting 
harder  than  I,  and  moving  no  faster,  the  little  tri-weekly  train  from  the 
coast,  crowded  with  dust-laden,  weary  passengers.  Almost  sheer 
above  me  stood  forth  the  beautiful  cone  of  snow-clad  Cotopaxi, 
equalled  in  symmetry  on  all  the  earth’s  surface  only  by  Fujiyama. 
To  the  left  the  hoary  head  of  Tungaragua,  far  away  in  the  blue  haze  of 
the  hot,  tropical  Oriente  it  looks  down  upon,  rose  gradually  higher  into 
the  sky.  Then  the  highway  descended  and  went  ever  more  swiftly 
downward  into  a half-arid  hole  in  the  ground,  and  by  three  I was 
tramping  the  cobbled  streets  of  Ambato,  the  “ winter  ” resort  of 
wealthy  quitenos,  a mere  8000  feet  above  sea-level.  To  one  accustomed 

170 


DOWN  VOLCANO  AVENUE 


to  loftier  Quito,  it  had  a tranquil,  half-languid  air;  its  people  were 
more  friendly,  lacking  that  suggestion  of  belligerency  common  to 
quitenos.  There  was,  indeed,  something  pleasing  about  it  that  I had 
never  yet  seen  in  Ecuador.  It  reminded  one  mildly  of  Egypt,  in  air 
and  odor,  and  the  dust  sweeping  across  from  the  barren,  arid  hills 
that  wall  it  in.  The  market  of  this  town,  hung  midway  between  the 
tropics  and  the  temperate  zone,  offers  the  fruits  of  both  — aguacates 
and  mangoes  side  by  side  with  apples,  pears,  peaches,  and  cherries  — 
the  native  capuli,  at  five  cents  a peck  — beside  raspberries  and  black- 
berries, and  the  perennial  “ fru-u-u-till-a-a-as ! ” (strawberries)  that 
are  singsung  daily  through  the  streets  of  Quito.  It  was  from  the 
market-place  of  Ambato  that  I caught  my  first  glimpse  of  Chimborazo, 
the  giant  of  the  Andes,  just  the  crown  of  its  long,  saw-like  glacier 
ridge  brilliant  white  against  the  steely  highland  sky,  as  it  stood  on 
tiptoe  peering  over  the  barren  ridges  of  Carhuairazo. 

Barely  had  I entered  the  hotel  when  its  dishevelled  boy-servants 
crowded  around  me  to  ask  if  I were  an  “ andarin.”  Peyrounel,  it 
proved,  had  once  favored  the  establishment  with  his  distinguished,  if 
financially  disadvantageous,  presence.  I pleaded  too  colorless  gar- 
ments to  merit  the  title.  To  these  Andean  village  youths  the  arrival 
of  so  romantic  a being  was  what  that  of  the  yearly  circus  is  to  our 
towns  of  the  far  interior.  Yet  when  I offered  any  of  them  double  his 
present  wage  to  accompany  me  and  carry  a few  pounds  of  my  pack, 
they  shook  their  heads  and  shrunk  fearfully  away. 

It  is  not,  as  I gradually  learned  to  my  growing  astonishment,  merely 
because  they  know  no  better  that  the  people  of  the  Andes  sleep  on 
wooden  beds.  In  Quito  I had  found  many  who  refused  to  use  the 
imported  springs,  and  I • know  at  least  two  doctors  who  prescribed 
wooden  beds  for  kidney  trouble.  Here  in  Ambato  a perfectly  re- 
spectable spring-bed  had  been  completely  floored  over,  and  the  un- 
suspecting gringo,  instead  of  landing  on  a soft  and  yielding  mattress, 
found  himself  on  such  a couch  as  a thinly  carpeted  floor  might  be. 
Nor  was  this  by  any  means  the  last  bed  out  of  which  I pulled  the 
lumber  and  spread  the  woven-reed  estcra  above  the  barrel-hoop 
springs. 

Ambato  claims  the  title  of  “ Athens  of  Ecuador  ” ; and,  indeed,  four 
of  the  country’s  principal  writers  lived  and  died  here,  which  is  more 
than  can  be  said  of  the  capital.  The  place  of  honor  in  the  main  plaza, 
gorgeous  with  geraniums  of  every  shade  of  red,  is  occupied  by  the 
statue  of  Juan  Montalvo,  commonly  rated  the  country’s  chief  liter- 

171 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


ary  light.  In  Ambato  Juan  Leon  Mera  wrote  his  “ Cumanda,”  the 
accepted  classic  among  Ecuador’s  novels ; and  one  may  still  visit  the 
family  of  Luis  Martinez,  whose  “ A la  Costa  ” is  worthy  a place  in 
South  American  literature,  if  only  for  its  magnificent  descriptions  of 
tropical  scenery. 

I left  Ambato  on  a morning  so  cold  that  gloves  would  have  been  wel- 
come; one  of  those  mornings,  frequent  in  Ecuador,  when  the  sun  rises 
like  a beauty  of  the  harem  pushing  aside  the  soft,  white  curtains  of 
her  alcove,  when  the  mountains,  at  the  bases  of  which  dense  masses  of 
clouds  and  mist  have  gathered,  seem  gigantic  altars  on  pedestals  of 
marble.  Soon  the  sun  grew  ardent  and  imperious,  capriciously  burning 
away  the  mist-curtains  of  the  night,  blazing  down  unrestrained  on  the 
rolling  plains  of  Huachi,  so  arid  and  monotonous.  The  road  lay  deep 
in  sand  across  a half-desert,  with  no  other  adornment  than  the  fences 
of  cabnya,  of  the  cactus  family,  that  replace  the  dividing  ditches  or 
mud  field-walls  further  north,  to  mark  the  limits  of  the  poor  heritages 
of  the  Indians.  The  chief  industry  here  is  the  weaving  of  a coarse 
cloth  from  the  fibers  of  the  cabnya  blanca.  Here  and  there  a capuli 
tree  persisted,  and  impenetrable,  bushy  clumps  of  the  thorny  sigse 
bristled  aggressively.  The  few  planted  fields  were  sparse  and  drear, 
though  near  the  town,  where  the  thirsty  arenales  had  been  transformed 
by  irrigation  into  patches  of  green  on  which  the  desert-weary  eyes 
rested  gratefully,  grew  the  strawberry,  large  and  fragrant. 

Higher  and  higher  rose  the  world,  though  so  imperceptibly  that  the 
ascent  was  noted  only  because  the  landscape  opened  out  to  ever  greater 
vistas.  It  was  a day  of  climax  in  volcanoes.  Around  the  circle  of  the 
spreading  horizon  the  white  crests  of  no  fewer  than  eight  of  the  great 
vent-holes  of  the  earth  grew  up  about  me,  until  I paused  on  a high 
ridge  to  study  them.  To  the  right,  for  a time  looking  like  a single  mass 
of  rock  and  snow,  stretched  long,  saw-toothed  Carhuairazo,  with  Chim- 
borazo rising  behind  it ; then  gradually  the  great,  glacier-blue  dome 
of  this  Everest  of  America  detached  itself  and  stood  forth  in  all  its 
immensity.  Far  behind,  yet  perfectly  clear  in  spite  of  the  blue  haze  of 
some  forty  miles  distance,  cone-shaped  Cotapaxi,  once  so  savage  in  its 
destruction,  reared  itself  into  the  sky-line  like  an  occidental  twin  sister 
of  Fujiyama.  To  the  left,  in  military  precision,  three  snow-clads 
stood  shoulder  to  shoulder  — Sincholagua,  Antisana,  and  one  above 
which  rose  a column  of  smoke  that  marked  it  as  Sangai,  most  active  of 
the  western  world,  but  a few  days  before  in  destructive  eruption. 
Then  came  the  glacier-clad,  rounded  cone  of  Tungarahua,  keeping  its 

172 


Indians  carrying  a grand  piano  across  the  plaza  of  Canar  on  a journey  to  the  interior 


The  Indians  of  Ecuador  draw  their  droves  of  cattle  on  after  them  by  playing  a weird,  mourn- 
ful “music”  on  the  bocina,  made  of  a section  of  bamboo 


DOWN  VOLCANO  AVENUE 


eternal  watch  over  the  tropical  Oriente,  and  to  the  south,  noblest  of  all, 
peering  forth  first  in  the  early  mists,  and  growing  in  grandeur  all  the 
morning,  stood  dreaded  El  Altar,  its  beauty  now  completely  unveiled, 
a fantastic  mass  of  peaks  and  pinnacles,  like  some  phantom  city  of 
ice. 

For  hours  the  snow-peaked  horizon  continued.  Across  the  sands 
of  Huachi  travelers  had  been  few;  toward  noon  they  grew  plentiful. 
Around  every  turn  appeared  Indians  and  their  four-footed  competitors, 
with  such  monotonous  persistency  that  I needed  a cudgel  to  drive  out 
of  my  way  the  asses  which,  expressionless  and  impassive  as  their 
masters,  were  inclined  to  march  serenely  on,  irrespective  of  human 
obstacles.  The  rare  chagras,  or  tawny  countrymen,  who  live  in  their 
chosas  along  the  way,  were  interesting  only  as  evidence  of  how  clod- 
like man  may  become.  At  Mocha,  where  I halted  in  the  early  after- 
noon, the  deep-blue  ice-fields  of  Chimborazo  lay  piled  into  the  sky 
overhead,  a mountain  still,  though  the  town  stands  more  than  two  miles 
above  the  sea.  All  the  following  morning  its  arctic  dome  towered 
close  on  my  right  as  I plodded  along  its  gentle  slope  not  far  below  the 
snow  line,  often  waist-deep  in  the  ruts  which  generations  of  pack- 
animals  and  Indians  had  worn  in  the  brown,  uninhabited  paramo, 
dreary  with  long,  slightly  rolling  stretches  of  bunch-grass,  across  which 
I only  now  and  then  overtook  a mule-train,  the  drivers  wrapped  to 
their  ears  in  their  heavy  ponchos.  Behind,  across  a hazy  valley,  now 
more  than  forty  miles  away,  the  symmetrical  cone  of  Cotapaxi  gleamed 
faintly  forth  in  a new  dress  of  snow  that  had  fallen  during  the  night. 
A cobbled  highway  ran  along  the  bottom  of  a slight  hollow  some  dis- 
tance off,  but  travelers  had  scorned  it  so  long  in  favor  of  the  rutted 
paramo  that  grass  was  grown  high  between  its  cobbles ; and  at  length, 
as  if  it  resented  the  abandonment,  it  swung  off  in  the  direction  of 
Cajabamba  and  was  gone. 

The  dozen  ruts  across  the  paramo  finally  joined  forces  to  form  a 
kind  of  road  that,  turning  its  back  on  Chimborazo,  around  whose  white 
head  a storm  was  brewing,  struck  off  toward  a long,  undulating,  hazy 
valley  backed  by  blue  heaps  of  ranges.  Gradually  I descended  to  al- 
most a desert  again,  by  a road  deep  in  sand,  rising  and  falling  over 
countless  sand-knolls,  the  peaked,  grass-covered  huts  of  Indians  tossed 
like  abandoned  old  straw  hats  far  up  the  flanks  of  the  drear  mountain- 
sides on  either  hand.  At  one  of  these  I found  the  first  use  for  my  new 
revolver.  An  enormous  dog,  plainly  bent  on  destruction,  bounded  out 
upon  me  without  a sound,  halted  abruptly  with  a faint  yelp  as  I pressed 

173 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


the  trigger,  turned  a complete  somersault,  and  fell  feet  upward,  like 
a captive  turtle,  not  two  yards  from  me. 

Ordinarily  there  is  little  to  be  feared  from  the  sneaking  curs  of  all 
colors  that  swarm  about  every  hut  throughout  the  length  of  the  Andes. 
Before  the  Conquest,  tradition  has  it,  the  Indians  had  only  the  mute 
allcu,  now  exterminated  — at  least,  it  is  certain  that  none  of  those  that 
remain  are  mute.  These  degenerate  descendants  of  the  animals 
brought  over  by  tbe  Spaniards  rival  the  original  chaos  of  sound  as  they 
rush  out  in  cowardly  packs  upon  any  stranger  — especially  a non- 
Indian,  for  as  the  white  man’s  dog  abhors  an  Indian,  so  do  these  a 
white  man  — while  their  masters  gaze  stolidly  on,  without  so  much  as 
attempting  to  call  them  off.  The  Indian  of  the  Andes  does  not  raise 
dogs ; he  has  them  merely  because  he  is  too  passive  to  get  rid  of  them. 
The  curs  are  never  treated  as  pets ; the  only  caress  they  ever  receive  is 
a kick  or  a prod  from  which  they  retreat  sluggishly  with  a cowardly 
yelp,  even  if  the  weapon  misses  its  aim ; they  are  never  fed,  but  exist 
on  such  offal  as  the  Indian  himself  disdains.  A mountaineer  to  whom 
I put  the  question  once  briefly  expressed  the  viewpoint  of  his  race : 

“ How  can  we  help  having  many  dogs,  patron  ? They  breed  so 
often ! ” 

From  the  village  of  San  Andres,  picturesquely  backed  by  the  ice- 
palace  of  El  Altar,  architecturally  as  diffuse  as  the  Castle  of  Schwerin, 
a spreading  highway,  bordered  by  endless  cactus  hedges,  led  toward  a 
great  sandy  plain  far  ahead,  a small  forest  of  eucalypti  that  marked 
the  site  of  Riobamba  giving  it  center.  Further  on,  for  all  the  aridity, 
was  plenty  of  half-grown  corn,  with  numberless  peaked,  thatched  huts 
peering  above  the  vegetation  on  either  hand.  At  the  entrance  to  Rio- 
bamba I saw  the  first  llamas  of  my  South  American  journey.  Once 
an  Indian  passed  driving  a llama  and  an  ass  hitched  together ; further 
on  several  of  these  absurd  “ Peruvian  sheep,”  pasturing  beyond  the 
cactus  hedge,  craned  their  long  necks  to  gaze  curiously  after  me. 
Times  without  number  I had  been  assured  that  not  only  was  the  llama 
never  a draft  or  a milch  animal,  but  that  it  could  never  be  ridden ; 
that  it  would  carry  exactly  a hundred  pounds  and  would  irrevocably 
lie  down  if  another  ounce  were  added,  and  that  it  could  under  no 
circumstances  be  urged  beyond  a slow,  dignified  walk.  Imagine  my 
surprise,  then,  when  suddenly  I beheld  a llama  bestridden  by  a full- 
grown  Indian  come  down  the  road  at  a brisk  trot,  and  watched  them 
fade  away  in  the  eucalyptus-lined  distance  beyond.  In  the  town  be- 
yond there  was  one  llama  for  every  two  donkeys. 

174 


DOWN  VOLCANO  AVENUE 


Riobamba,  chief  city  between  Quito  and  the  coast,  is  commonly 
described  as  “ lying  at  the  foot  of  Chimborazo.”  The  description  must 
not  be  taken  too  literally.  I had  imagined  a cold,  haughty  little  town 
snuggled  together  in  a lap  of  the  high  Andes ; but  if  Riobamba  lies  at 
the  foot  of  Chimborazo,  so,  in  only  somewhat  lesser  degree,  does  Guaya- 
quil. The  traveler  turns  his  back  on  the  glacier-clad  giant  of  the 
Andes  and  tramps  a long  half-day  before  he  comes  to  what,  in  situation 
and  general  appearance,  might  be  a town  on  the  sandy  prairies  of 
western  Nebraska.  Its  monotonously  right-angled  streets  are  un- 
usually wide,  painfully  cobbled,  and  swirling  with  sand ; its  architecture 
is  drearily  like  that  of  any  other  Andean  city.  It  has  been  several 
times  destroyed  by  earthquake ; were  it  not,  like  Quito,  more  than  two 
miles  aloft,  it  would  be  even  more  often  destroyed  by  its  personal 
habits.  At  sunrise  thrice  a week  most  of  the  town  turns  out  to 
watch  the  trains  that  have  “ overnighted  ” here  leave  for  Quito  and 
Guayaquil  respectively ; whence  its  suggestion  of  some  frontier 
village  of  railroad  hotels  in  our  Western  states.  Unlike  Quito,  Rio- 
bamba has  a street-car.  It  is  a platform  on  wheels  with  a flat  roof 
supported  by  gas-pipes,  under  which  are  some  crosswise  boards  that 
are  called  seats  with  the  same  Latin-American  tolerance  with  which  a 
place  to  lie  on  the  floor  is  called  a bed,  and  a place  the  traveler  may 
possibly  be  able  to  make  his  way  through  is  called  a road.  Like  some 
Andean  newspapers,  it  appears  “ every  now  and  then,”  when  a pair  of 
blase,  world-weary  mules  drag  it  across  town  to  the  station  and  back, 
usually  only  on  train  days.  Many  ride,  and  the  more  poorly  dressed 
seem  to  pay  for  the  privilege ; but  the  Indians  take  good  care  not  to  be 
caught  on  any  such  risky,  new-fangled  contraption. 

There  is  commonly  not  a “ sight  ” to  be  seen  in  Riobamba,  unless 
it  be  the  stern,  white  face  of  Chimborazo  looking  down  upon  the  city 
from  the  middle  distance  to  the  north.  The  traveler  who  chances  upon 
the  town  of  a Saturday  or  Sunday,  however,  will  find  it  a place  of 
interest.  Then  the  Indian  population  of  a thickly  inhabited  region 
comes  from  thirty  or  more  miles  around  to  what  is  rated  Ecuador’s 
greatest  market.  The  sandy  plaza,  larger  than  an  American  city  block, 
is  so  densely  packed  with  stolid  thick-set  men  and  women  in  gray  felt 
hats  and  crude-colored  blankets  that  only  by  constant  struggle  can  a 
purchaser  thread  his  way  across  it.  From  my  room  on  the  corner 
above,  not  a foot  of  open  ground  was  visible.  The  scene  was  like  a 
swarming  of  myriad  ants  of  many  colors ; like  a great  Oriental  rug  un- 
dulating in  the  sunshine.  As  one  crowds  along  between  the  rows  of 

175 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


hawkers,  all  the  products  of  the  region  seem  to  pass  in  procession. 
Here  were  entire  families  who  had  jogged  many  miles  to  town  under 
the  produce  of  their  chacras ; there,  a man  with  only  a half-grown 
chicken  or  a gaunt  pig  for  sale ; beyond,  a woman  sat  all  day  long  selling 
bit  by  bit,  at  a net  total  of  perhaps  ten  cents,  the  bushel  of  native  cher- 
ries which,  together  with  her  babe,  she  has  carried  at  least  twenty  miles. 
Here  was  a pile  of  ugly  native  shoes  — of  very  limited  demand  — 
there,  homespun  blankets  and  ponchos  in  colors  that  scream  audibly,  be- 
fore they  mellowed  by  sun  and  rain  and  the  habits  of  their  wearers. 
Every  domestic  animal  and  fowl  known  to  the  Andes  of  to-day  was 
displayed ; cheap  knives,  tin  spoons,  trinkets  from  foreign  lands,  native 
plants  and  bulbs ; herbs  that  still  make  up  the  aboriginal  pharmacopoeia, 
as  in  pre-Conquest  days ; tiny  packages  of  dyestuffs  that  are  doled  out 
a penny-worth  at  a time ; corn  bread  and  barley  bread,  even  a few  soggy 
wheat  biscuits  — though  the  price  of  the  latter  is  all  but  prohibitive  — 
cherries,  strawberries,  oranges,  aguacates,  a hard  native  taffy  known 
as  alfcnique,  pears,  apricots,  peaches,  a hard  little  apple  that  never 
matures,  pineapples,  nearly  all  the  grains  and  vegetables  known  in 
our  own  land,  and  even  a greater  variety  of  corn  and  potatoes;  and  a 
countless  confusion  of  other  products  that  sell  for  what  would  seem  far 
less  than  the  cost  of  bringing  them  to  town.  Beyond,  was  a tercena, 
an  open-air  butchershop,  where  Indian  women  hacked  into  bits  the 
cows  and  sheep  that  had  succumbed  to  amateur  butchers,  at  the  same 
time  fighting  off  the  fifteen  dogs  which,  by  actual  count,  prowled  about 
the  stand.  In  one  corner  scores  of  tawny,  bare-legged  Indians  squatted 
beside  heavy  grass-wrapped  loads  of  snowy  ice,  Riobamba’s  only 
means  of  cooling  her  beverages.  If  one  knew  enough  of  the  bastard 
Quichua  of  Ecuador  to  ask  its  origin,  the  stolid  fellows  threw  an  ex- 
pressionless glance  toward  the  icy  dome  of  Chimborazo.  About  them 
hovered  something  akin  to  the  glamour  that  surrounds  the  Arctic  ex- 
plorer. All  day  long  was  an  endless  motley  going  and  coming  through 
the  adjacent  streets  and  plazas,  amid  which  the  imagination  could 
easily  drop  back  four  centuries  and  fancy  what  this  Andean  world 
may  have  been  before  the  coming  of  the  white  man. 

It  was  so  brilliant  a Sunday  that  Chimborazo  seemed  to  hang  almost 
sheer  above  the  town,  and  the  whole  bulk  of  snow-clad  Tungarahua 
loomed  clearly  forth  from  its  tropical  home,  when  I set  out  after  mid- 
day for  what  I had  been  told  was  an  easy  half-day’s  tramp.  Within 
an  hour  — so  sudden  are  the  changes  in  weather  zones  here  — an  icy 
rain  was  pouring  down  upon  my  shoulders  bowed  with  the  weight  of  a 

176 


Ruins  of  the  fortress  of  Ingapirca,  near  Canar,  where  the  Inca  Huayna  Ccapac  is  said  to 
have  received  the  f.rst  news  of  the  landing  of  white  men  on  the  coast  of  his  Empire 


A mild  example  of  the  “road”  through  southern  Ecuador.  The  trail  pitches  and  rolls 
over  earthquake-gashed,  utterly  uninhabited  regions,  sinking  far  out  of  sight  in  the 
quebrada  in  the  middle  distance,  then  climbs  away  across  the  world  until  the  hill 
here  seen  sinks  to  a dot  on  the  landscape 


DOWN  VOLCANO  AVENUE 


hundred-pound  pack.  At  last  I sprawled  to  a summit  with  an  all- 
embracing  view  of  the  entire  district  of  Riobamba,  the  city  itself  a 
mere  fleck  far  below  in  an  opaque-blue  landscape  roofed  by  purple- 
black  clouds  through  which  the  unseen  sun  cast  a single  faint  shaft,  as 
from  a weak  spotlight.  The  rain,  which  in  Ecuador  falls  in  zones 
sharply  cut  off  one  from  another,  ceased  abruptly  at  the  top  of  the  bar- 
rier. Here  were  two  roads  from  which  to  choose,  and  for  hours  there- 
after I could  not  know  whether  the  one  that  descended  a sharp  valley 
beside  a tiny  stream  led  anywhere  near  where  I wished  to  go.  Well 
down  the  bone-dry  vale  were  scattered  hamlets  of  grass  and  mud  huts 
of  a half-wild  tribe  of  Indians,  the  men  in  white  goatskin  trousers  that 
gave  them  the  appearance  of  shaggy-legged  Greek  satyrs,  the  dwellings 
often  hung  far  up  the  steep  walls  that  enclosed  the  growing  stream. 
Many  of  the  inhabitants  ran  away  at  my  approach;  the  rest  stared  at 
me  from  safe  heights  as  I sped  on  down  the  valley.  Ugly  white  curs 
abounded ; in  the  scanty  trees  a bird  sang  now  and  then ; but  for  the 
most  part  only  the  sound  of  the  stream  leaping  from  rock  to  rock 
broke  the  mountain-walled  silence. 

Cold  darkness  fell,  and  still  the  broken  trail  descended  swiftly.  At 
rare  intervals  a corner  of  the  moon  peered  through  the  clouds.  Then, 
in  the  blackest  of  nights,  the  road  forked  again,  giving  me  another 
random  choice.  A wild,  windy,  uninhabited  hour  beyond,  the  path 
fell  suddenly  away  under  my  feet  and  I found  myself  involved  in  a 
labyrinth  of  quebradas,  holes  and  chasms  large  as  two-story  houses, 
as  if  the  region  had  been  wrecked  by  a long  series  of  earthquakes.  A 
score  of  times  I climbed  down  hand  over  hand  into  immense  ruts  with 
walls  high  above  my  head,  certain  I had  lost  my  way,  yet  with  no  other 
choice  than  to  press  on.  Two  hours,  at  least,  this  riot  of  the  earth’s 
surface  continued  before  there  appeared  suddenly  the  lights  of  a con- 
siderable town,  dimly  seen  through  the  night  across  a wet,  blurred 
valley  backed  by  an  all  but  invisible  mountainside.  A trail  picked 
itself  together  again  under  my  feet,  pitched  headlong  down  to  a roar- 
ing little  river  straddled  by  an  aged  stone  bridge,  ghostly  white  in  the 
pallid  moonlight,  and  led  me  stumbling  into  the  railroad  village  of 
Guamote,  still  booming  with  the  tomtoms  of  the  Sunday  fiesta  that 
had  left  its  scattered  debris  of  drunken  Indians  through  all  the  length 
of  the  town. 

From  Guamote  I followed  the  silent  but  well-kept  Quito-Guayaquil 
Railway  through  a landscape  like  that  of  southern  Texas,  winding  in 
and  out  between  dreary  hills  peopled  only  by  a rare  weather-worn 

177 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


shepherd  in  goatskin  trousers ; then  across  broad  stretches  of  sear- 
brown,  slightly  rolling  desert  scantily  covered  with  bunch-grass,  the 
sand  sweeping  over  it  in  clouds.  From  Palmira, — two  dismal  little 
station  buildings  at  some  11,000  feet  elevation  — the  railroad  drops 
steadily  for  all  the  more  than  a hundred  miles  to  the  coast.  Some  way 
down  the  descending  valley,  the  land  turned  almost  suddenly  from 
dreary  brown  to  the  green  of  another  rain-belt  that  gradually  climbed 
the  ever-higher  mountain  walls  that  shut  me  in.  Beyond  Alausi 
next  morning  I made  a swift  descent,  even  swifter  by  sliding  down 
the  face  of  the  notorious  “ Devil’s  Nose,”  where  the  track  mounts 
in  three  sections,  one  above  the  other,  and  reached  the  little  town 
of  Huigra  in  time  for  “ breakfast.”  Here,  in  a green  valley  be- 
tween high  hills  falling  abruptly  into  a prattling  stream,  are  the  main 
offices  and  hospitals  of  the  railroad,  and  an  American  atmosphere, 
tempered  with  whiffs  of  England  and  Ecuador,  to  which  the  fever  and 
bubonic  of  Guaj^aquil  do  not  mount,  nor  the  ills  of  Quito  descend. 

At  Huigra  my  route  was  to  turn  southward  over  the  enclosing  moun- 
tain wall.  But  I had  no  objection  to  coasting  down  into  the  tropics 
on  a side-trip  to  Guayaquil  — except  Guayaquil  itself ; and  when  the 
chief  engineer  promised  a screened  refuge  from  sun  to  sun,  I accepted 
the  invitation  gladly.  All  that  is  necessary  to  travel  from  Huigra  to 
sea-level  is  to  get  something  on  wheels  of  the  right  gage  and  “ let  her 
slide  ” — or  rather,  let  her  slide  within  very  definite  limits,  lest  one  reach 
the  bottom  far  sooner  and  in  poorer  condition  than  was  planned. 
With  a native  employee  behind,  the  two  of  us  sat  on  the  sheer  front 
edge  of  the  track  automobile,  the  experienced  hand  of  the  chief  on 
the  brake,  and  roared  in  and  out  and  ever  down  the  mountain  canon, 
the  towering  walls  on  either  side  rising  higher  above  us  with  every 
yard  forward,  a foaming  river  keeping  us  a not  much  slower  company. 
Huigra  is  at  kilometer  117.  At  no  we  suddenly  reached  the  tree-line. 
Forests  in  striking  contrast  to  the  bare  upland  plateau  of  Ecuador  grew 
up  about  us  as  if  by  magic.  Foaming  mountain  brooks  dashed  down 
from  either  towering  wall  to  join  the  river  — and  to  save  the  company 
the  expense  of  building  water-tanks.  Swiftly  the  trees  changed  in 
species, — from  hardy  highland  shrubs  to  voluptuous  tropical  growths, 
till  the  airy  bamboo,  noblest  of  ferns,  bowed  to  us  in  graceful  dignity 
from  the  crowded  forest  as  we  screamed  past. 

Before  noon  we  swung  out  of  the  gorge  I had  followed  from  Pal- 
mira, and  halted  at  Bucay.  It  had  been  like  dropping  in  two  hours 
from  May  to  a dense  and  heavy  July,  from  a northern  scene  to  one  like 

178 


DOWN  VOLCANO  AVENUE 


that  of  Panama,  with  the  same  sticky  atmosphere,  negroes,  and  out- 
door life.  Here  we  took  possession  of  the  empty  pay-car  on  the  rear 
of  the  day’s  passenger-train  and  sat  with  our  feet  on  the  back  railing, 
watching  the  dead-flat  tropical  world  run  away  and  shrink  up  to 
nothingness  behind  us.  The  track  lay  straight  as  a cannon-ball’s  course 
through  the  tunnel  of  forest  and  jungle.  Indians  and  their  gay  gar- 
ments had  disappeared ; here  were  only  the  colors  of  nature.  Along 
the  way,  thatched  houses  of  split  bamboo  slouched  in  languid  attitudes, 
half-black  and  slightly  dressed  families  peering  from  their  sort  of  hole- 
in-the-wall  verandas  behind  partly  raised  blinds  hinged  at  the  top. 
For  all  the  lazy  langor  of  the  scene,  jungle  products  succeeded  each 
other  swiftly.  Cacao,  then  palm-trees  gladdened  the  eyes ; the  air 
grew  heavier ; now  and  then  a great  field  of  sugar-cane  broke  briefly 
the  endless  tunnel  of  forest;  beautiful  bamboo  groves  alternated  with 
immense  tropical  trees  cutting  into  the  sky-line. 

The  natives,  afoot  or  ahorse,  used  the  track  as  a trail,  for  all  else 
was  impenetrable  wilderness.  Here  and  there  the  jungle  crowded  so 
close  that  it  side-swiped  the  car,  though  along  the  way  were  many 
section-gangs  fighting  it  back  with  machetes,  the  favorite  tool  and 
weapon  of  the  costeno,  who  saluted  us  — or,  more  exactly,  my  com- 
panion — as  we  sped  past.  Pineapple  fields  grew  numerous ; at  sta- 
tions the  fruit  lay  in  piles  at  the  feet  of  indifferent  chocolate-colored 
vendors.  The  brown  castor-bean  on  its  small  green  trees  appeared ; 
splendid  cocoanut  palms,  heavy  with  nuts,  heralded  the  sea ; maidenly 
slender  rubber-trees ; broad  fields  of  light-green  rice,  growing  arm  in 
arm  with  Indian  corn ; the  plebeian  bread-fruit  tree,  with  its  broad 
leaves  fancily  cut  as  with  scissors  in  the  hands  of  an  inventive  child ; 
and  always  gigantic  tropical  trees  cut  fantastically  into  the  sky-line 
of  the  light-gray  day  above.  Behind,  always,  fixed  as  fate  itself,  the 
dim  and  clouded  range  of  the  Andes,  a giant  wall,  blue  and  unbroken, 
shut  off  the  world  beyond.  Here  and  there  a hoary  peak  showed 
above  the  clouds,  so  high  one  could  not  believe  it  possible.  Far  off  in 
the  heavens  like  a great  cloud,  Chimborazo  stood  white  and  immovable. 
As  in  the  forest  one  sees  only  trees,  so  only  down  here,  looking  at  the 
chain  as  a w’hole,  could  one  realize  the  loftiness  of  those  realms  where 
one  had  been  living  for  months  more  than  two  miles  above  the  sea. 

Naked  brown  babies,  huts  on  ever  longer  legs,  hammocks,  grew 
numerous,  and  languid  loungers  to  fill  them ; here  and  there  appeared 
a Chinaman ; some  large  towns,  bamboo-built  and  all  on  stilts,  like  a 
thin-shanked  army ; buzzards  circling  lazily  overhead  amid  scents  that 

179 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


whispered  of  plague  and  sudden  death.  Then  on  either  hand  began  to 
appear  the  low,  dense-wooded  hills  of  Duran,  more  properly  deep  green 
islands  in  this  flood-time.  Fluffy  white  flowers  in  myriads  smiled 
bravely  above  the  black  waters  that  would  soon  swallow  them  up. 
The  vast  mountain  wall  across  the  world  behind  had  grown  a shade 
bluer  when  we  drew  into  Duran  on  the  banks  of  the  Guayas,  and  brush- 
ing both  clear  with  housewifely  care  of  any  lurking  mosquito,  dodged 
through  the  double  screen-doors  into  the  railroad  quarters.  Here  were 
shower-baths  and  phonographs,  New  York  papers,  a frequent  nasal 
twang,  and  only  outside  and  seeming  far  off  as  in  some  distant  place, 
the  scent  of  Ecuador. 

Sudden  death  is  reputed  to  fly  chiefly  by  night  along  the  Guayas. 
So  only  when  the  sun  was  high  did  we  venture  across  to  Ecuador’s 
metropolis  and  far-famed  death-trap,  Guayaquil.  Outwardly,  the  low, 
heat-steaming  city  looked  far  cleaner  than  Quito.  But  here  filth  grants 
no  immunity.  During  three  hours  we  saw  the  black  funeral  street- 
car pass  nine  times  — and  by  no  means  all  the  population  can  afford 
so  splendid  an  exit  from  the  world.  Yet  here  were  electric  tramways 
for  the  first  time  since  Bogota,  larger  shops  and  more  ambitious  dis- 
plays than  in  Quito,  and  signs  of  greater  commercial  activity.  The 
houses  were  of  wood  or  split  bamboo,  low  and  earthquake-fearing, 
all  the  windows  with  wooden  blinds  hinged  at  the  top,  from  behind 
which  peered  half  the  female  population,  seldom  seen  on  the  streets. 
Compared  to  Quito,  it  was  a town  of  no  color  at  all.  Among  the 
foreign  residents  was  a curious  indifference  to  local  dangers,  always 
seeming  greater  at  a distance  than  on  the  spot.  Americans  yawned  at 
the  mention  of  “Yellow  Jack”  and  Bubonic  and  went  about  their 
business  with  as  little  apparent  worry  as  a New  Yorker  of  death  by 
a street  accident.  Nothing  in  the  attitude  of  the  people  suggested  an 
unusually  precarious  hold  on  life- — -except  that  ever  recurrent  black 
funeral  car,  electrically  operated,  as  if  horses  were  not  fast  enough 
for  its  incessant  labors.  Long  before  the  sun  had  lost  its  mastery  of 
the  situation,  we  had  retreated  again  to  Duran.  The  lone  traveler 
in  far-off  lands  runs  many  perils,  but  if  I must  succumb  to  one  of 
them,  let  it  be  with  a fighting  chance,  not  this  insidious,  sneaking  death 
that  flies  on  all  but  invisible  wings. 

Next  morning  the  passenger-train  lifted  us  back  to  Huigra,  where  a 
new  experience  awaited  me.  That  evening  I sat  writing  in  the  rail- 
road quarters.  Two  fellow-countrymen  were  parading  the  broad,  sec- 
ond-story veranda  of  the  light  wooden  building.  The  only  other  sound 

180 


Cuenca,  third  city  of  Ecuador,  lies  in  one  of  the  most  fertile  and  beautiful  valleys  of  the  Andes 


DOWN  VOLCANO  AVENUE 


was  the  muffled  chatter  of  the  stream  below.  Suddenly  the  heavy  table 
beneath  my  arm  began  to  move  as  at  some  spiritualist  seance,  the 
windows  took  to  rattling  as  if  in  some  sudden  terror  to  escape  from 
their  frames,  the  wall  decorations  swung  back  and  forth  like  pendu- 
lums, and  for  what  seemed  a long  minute  the  entire  building  shook  as 
with  a paludic  fever.  I opened  my  mouth  to  protest  against  what  I 
took  for  a moment  to  be  physical  exuberance  of  the  veranda  paraders; 
but  I closed  it  again  as  I realized  that  I had  passed  through  my  first 
earthquake,  and  had  gone  on  writing  for  a line  or  more  before  I recog- 
nized the  good  fortune  of  being  in  a wooden  house.  Outside,  the 
strollers  had  not  even  interrupted  their  chat,  except  to  remark,  “ Pretty 
good  one,  eh?”  and  when  the  natives  in  the  town  below  had  left  off 
shouting,  evidently  in  an  attempt  to  scare  off  the  dreaded  spirit  within 
the  bowels  of  the  earth,  life  returned  to  its  customary  languor,  the 
silence  broken  only  by  the  stream  still  prattling  on  through  the  dark- 
ness. In  the  morning  the  telegraph  wire  brought  word  that  the  in- 
struments of  Duran  had  registered  seven  quakes,  and  that  several 
houses  and  a church  had  fallen  in  the  adobe  interior. 

On  the  morning  of  February  24th  I crossed  the  little  bridge  over 
Huigra’s  garrulous  stream  and,  trailing  away  up  the  mountain  wall 
that  shuts  off  the  railroad  valley  on  the  south,  disappeared  from  the 
modern  world.  All  but  twenty  pounds  of  my  baggage  I had  turned 
over  to  a native  fletero,  proprietor  of  a mule-and-jackass  express  com- 
pany that  operated  as  far  south  as  Cuenca.  It  was  in  the  nature  of 
things,  however,  that  even  under  a light  load  I should  pay  for  my  de- 
scent to  Huigra  by  much  sweating  toil,  before  raising  again  its  paltry 
4000  feet  to  the  two  miles  or  more  of  the  Andean  chain.  In  the  valley 
a brilliant  sun  set  me  dripping;  above  was  driving  mist  to  chill  me 
through  if  I dared  to  pause,  and  out  of  which  now  and  then  floated  the 
gentle  exhortations  of  unseen  arrieros  to  their  toiling  animals : 

“ Anda,  macho  ! Mula,  caramba  ! V aya,  sinvergiienza ! ” 

An  experienced  gringo  had  assured  me  I was  approaching  the  most 
impassable  region  in  Ecuador,  a place  where  it  rained  steadily  and 
heavily  a hundred  and  four  weeks  a year,  where  my  mules  would  sink 
to  their  ears  in  mud  and  be  left  to  perish,  where  I myself  would 
infallibly  die  of  exposure  if  my  caravan  were  overtaken  by  night  out 
on  the  lofty  paramo.  I easily  forestalled  the  peril  to  my  mules,  and 
the  second  I resolved  to  avoid  by  not  letting  night  overtake  me. 

It  was  not,  certainly,  an  ideal  road.  There  were  places  where  the 
writhing  trail  was  for  miles  a series  of  earth  ridges  with  deep  ditches 

181 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


of  mud  and  water  between,  like  an  endless  corduroy  road,  and  these 
made  hard  going  indeed  for  laden  animals.  For  as  often  as  one  of 
them  set  foot  on  one  of  these  camelones,  as  they  are  called  in  the  Andes, 
it  slipped  off  into  the  muddy  ditch  between,  as  likely  backward  as  for- 
ward, giving  a very  exaggerated  imitation  of  the  gait  of  a camel.  In 
fact,  it  is  this  constant  slipping  and  sliding  of  passing  pack-trains  that 
turns  certain  wet  regions  of  the  Andes  into  camelones.  In  places  the 
mud- reeking  slope  climbed  steep  mountain-sides  through  narrow  trails 
worn  twenty  feet  deep,  down  or  up  which  horses  or  cargo  mules 
stumbled  and  sprawled  constantly,  threatening  to  smash  their  packs 
against  the  side  walls  or  underfoot. 

But  it  was  a route  far  worse  for  horsemen  than  for  a man  afoot.  I 
stepped  blithely  from  ridge  to  ridge,  not  only  dry  shod  but  at  my  regular 
pace,  easily  leaving  all  four-footed  competitors  behind ; and  while 
there  were  germs  of  truth  in  the  warning  that  a mule  and  his  cargo, 
slipping  and  falling  upon  me  in  one  of  the  gullies,  might  bring  my 
journey  to  a halt,  the  very  simple  remedy  for  that  possibility  was  not 
to  be  found  loitering  beneath  an  animal  when  he  fell.  Donkey  car- 
casses and  the  rain-bleached  skeletons  of  mules  and  horses  were 
frequent  along  the  way;  and  always,  now  broken,  now  for  a time  in- 
cessant, came  out  of  the  blind  mist  the  raucous  bawling  of  arrieros: 
“ Anda,  mula,  caramba  ! ” 

The  dense,  heavy  fog  turned  to  pouring  rain.  Indeed  there  were 
evidences  to  verify  the  assertion  that  this  was  one  of  the  zones  of 
Ecuador  where  the  rainy  season  reigns  perennially.  In  midafternoon 
] passed  a few  Indian  hovels.  I had  been  warned  to  stop  for  the 
night  in  the  last  of  these  rare  habitations,  if  I would  not  end  my  way- 
ward career  out  on  the  arctic  paramo  of  the  Nudo  de  Azuay.  But 
the  stolid-featured  native  assured  me  there  were  others  a half-league 
on,  and  I had  climbed  twice  that  distance  across  a dismal  stretch  of 
bunch-grass  without  a sign  of  life,  except  a scanty  herd  of  wild,  shaggy, 
rain-drenched  cattle,  before  I realized  that  the  Indian  had  told  the  old 
lie  to  be  rid  of  an  importunate  guest.  Within  me  there  grew  the  con- 
viction that,  in  spite  of  my  best  intentions,  I should  some  day  shoot  a 
large,  round,  soft-nosed,  38-caliber  hole  through  some  Indian  for  send- 
ing me  “ further  up  ” into  the  uninhabited  night. 

However,  there  I was,  exactly  where,  of  all  places  in  Ecuador,  I 
had  so  often  been  warned  in  several  tongues  not  to  let  night  overtake 
me.  The  gray  walls  about  me  dimmed  like  a lamp  turned  out.  These 
paramo  trails  being,  even  by  day,  only  a straggling  of  interwoven  paths 

182 


DOWN  VOLCANO  AVENUE 


often  effaced,  it  was  not  in  the  order  of  things  that  I should  keep  the 
route  long  in  unmitigated  night.  For  a time  I stumbled  along  an 
irregular,  rock-littered  ground,  full  of  leg-breaking  holes,  picking  every 
step  ahead  with  my  stick,  like  a blind  man,  and  even  at  that  now  and 
then  sprawling  on  all  fours.  As  to  direction,  I could  only  trust  to 
luck.  Then  I felt  water-soaked  bunch-grass  under  foot,  and  all  efforts 
to  find  the  trail  again  were  wasted.  Vaguely  I felt  that  I had  come 
out  on  the  nose  of  a mountain.  Through  the  rain-drenched  night 
there  came  faintly  to  my  ears  the  sound  of  a waterfall,  and  from 
somewhere  far  off  the  dismal  howling  of  a dog  rode  by  on  the  raging 
wind.  The  ground  under  my  feet  took  on  the  angle  of  a steep  roof ; 
it  required  stick,  hands,  and  extreme  vigilance  to  keep  from  pitching 
headlong  down  into  the  bottomless  unknown.  I felt  my  way  inch  by 
inch  several  hundred  feet  downward  without  finding  a level  space  as 
large  as  my  hand.  In  the  end  I could  only  sit  down  on  my  bundle  in 
the  mud,  brace  my  feet  against  a tuft  of  bunch-grass  and,  piling  my 
most  perishable  possessions  in  my  lap,  button  my  llama-hair  poncho 
over  my  head,  sup  on  a three-inch  butt  of  bread,  and  settle  down  to 
keep  my  precarious  seat  until  daylight. 

He  who  fancies  an  Ecuadorian  mountainside  a pleasant  night’s  lodg- 
ing-place, merely  because  it  is  near  the  equator,  has  still  something  of 
geography  to  learn.  Strangely  enough,  it  might  have  been  worse.  The 
poncho  was  almost  impervious  to  cold,  entirely  so  to  rain.  As  the 
Scottish  chieftain  of  earlier  days  soaked  his  tartan  before  lying  down 
for  a night  in  the  highland  heather,  so  the  wetness  of  all  about  me 
seemed  to  add  warmth.  The  rain  redoubled,  yet  I should  scarcely 
have  known  it  but  for  its  pelting  above  my  head.  I dozed  now  and 
then  into  a nap.  After  one  of  them  I peered  out  into  the  wintry  night, 
to  find  the  mist  alive  with  hardy  fireflies  so  large  that  those  which 
started  up  near  me  seemed  to  my  dull  fancy  the  lanterns  of  some 
prowling  band.  Twice  some  animal,  perhaps  a wild  mountain-horse, 
romped  by  me.  When  I looked  out  again  a bright  moon  was  shining, 
yet  I felt  too  comfortable  as  I was  to  take  advantage  of  it  to  push  on, 
and  fell  asleep  again,  not  without  a drowsy  misgiving  that  some  diligent 
hunter  might  try  a shot  at  my  huddled,  shaggy  form  standing  out  in 
the  moonlight  against  the  swift  mountainside ; until  I remembered  that 
no  native  ever  ventures  out  upon  an  Andean  paramo  except  in  the  full 
light  of  day. 

Dawn  showed  the  lost  trail  zigzagging  in  three  branches  down  the 
face  of  the  mountain.  The  waterfall  lay  directly  below  me,  yet  so 

183 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


steep  was  the  slope  on  which  I was  perched  that  I had  to  crawl  back 
again  up  the  trail  on  all  fours  and  descend  with  it.  Far  away  across 
a valley  so  deep  I could  not  see  its  bottom,  lay  in  plain  sight  what  I 
knew  to  be  the  town  of  Canar,  a mere  white  speck  halfway  up  the 
great  mountainside  beyond.  It  is  chiefly  noted  for  its  outlook  upon 
the  world.  From  a distance,  it  seemed  to  hang  upright  on  the  vertical 
mountain  flank ; once  arrived,  I found  it  occupied  the  flat  top  of  one 
of  the  countless  hills  that  pile  higher  and  higher  into  the  sky,  to 
culminate  in  a great  Andean  chain.  Here  was  a land  of  stone. 
Everywhere,  in  field  and  valley,  rocks  lay  more  profusely  and  far 
larger  in  size  than  on  any  abandoned  New  England  farm.  If  the 
tumble-down  old  town  of  Canar  had  any  features  at  all  different  from 
hundreds  of  others  down  the  crest  of  the  Andes,  it  was  its  large  pro- 
portion of  stone  buildings  over  those  of  sun-baked  mud. 

It  is  perhaps  the  existence  of  stone,  rarer  to  the  north,  that  accounts 
for  the  presence  near  Canar  of  the  first  ruins  of  unquestionably  Inca 
origin.  Their  victorious  march  to  the  north,  too,  was  so  quickly  fol- 
lowed by  the  arrival  of  the  Spaniards,  that  the  Children  of  the  Sun 
left  no  permanent  works  about  Quito  and  beyond.  The  imperial 
highway  from  Cuzco  to  what  is  to-day  Ecuador,  built  by  a race  less 
fearful  of  the  lofty  places  and  mighty  canons  of  the  Andes,  was 
more  direct  than  the  modern  haphazard  route.  Where  it  descended 
from  the  paramo  of  Azuay  and  climbed  out  of  the  gorge  beyond,  there 
was  built  a fortress  and  a tarnbo  for  the  housing  of  the  imperial 
cortege  that  is  known  to-day  as  Ingapirca,  which  some  believe  to  be 
that  same  Tomebamba  where  Huayna  Ccapac,  the  Great,  was  born, 
and  where  the  news  of  the  landing  on  the  coast  of  a strange  tribe  cut 
short  his  journey  southward  in  his  old  age. 

He  who  would  visit  Ingapirca  must  have  either  a guide  or  a working 
mixture  of  Spanish  and  Quichua.  I lost  myself  a dozen  times  in  a 
labyrinth  of  paths,  each  leading  to  an  isolated  Indian  hovel.  One 
might  have  fancied  the  aboriginals  had  surrounded  the  sacred  Inca 
relics  with  a conspiracy  of  silence,  for  I was  forced  at  last  to  drag  an 
old  man  forcibly  out  of  a cluster  of  cobble-stone  huts  before  he  pointed 
out  to  me  a path  that  wound  away  upward  and  disappeared  over  the 
edge  of  the  world.  Along  it  I came  at  last  in  sight  of  Ingapirca. 
The  “ Castle  of  the  Gentiles,”  as  it  is  locally  known  to-day,  sits  silent 
and  grass-grown  on  the  summit  of  a rock-knoll  from  which  the  eye 
ranges  in  every  direction  over  a tumbled  labyrinth  of  valleys  and  ridges. 
They  built  high,  the  Incas,  as  men  who  preferred  to  see  with  their  own 

184 


A detail  of  the  “ Panama  ”-hat  market  of  Azogues.  The  hats  are  bought  unfinished  and  the 
wholesalers  pile  one  after  another  on  their  heads  until  their  faces  are  all  but 
concealed  by  the  protruding  “straw”  ends 


Arrived  at  the  wholesale  establishments  of  Cuenca,  the  hats  are  finished, — the  “straw ’’-ends 
tucked  in  and  cut  off,  the  hats  beaten  with  wooden  mallets  on  wooden  blocks,  given 
a sulphur  bath  and  sun-bleached,  then  folded  flat  for  shipment 


DOWN  VOLCANO  AVENUE 


eyes  what  was  going  on  about  them,  and  they  seem  to  have  gloated 
over  the  unbroken  sweep  of  the  cold,  invigorating  Andean  wind.  The 
chief  ruin  is  that  of  a fortress,  an  oval  wall  with  a sheer  rock  face 
to  the  north,  and  symmetrical  stone  steps  leading  up  to  the  entrance 
on  the  south.  Of  large  cut  stones,  and  with  ornamental  blind  doors, 
or  niches,  it  is  so  like  the  monuments  of  Peru  as  to  leave  no  doubt 
of  its  Inca  origin.  Even  on  the  curves,  the  stones  are  so  nicely  fitted, 
apparently  without  mortar  — though  Humboldt  reported  the  discovery 
of  a kind  of  cement  between  them  — that  there  are  few  joints  for 
which  a modern  contractor  would  berate  his  workmen.  The  walls 
are  double,  with  earth  between  them,  the  inner  wall  less  carefully  con- 
structed ; and  undisturbed  centuries  have  filled  the  interior  of  the 
fort  to  a grass-grown  level.  Above  this  rise  the  remnants  of  a 
building,  only  adobe  walls  with  some  cut-stone  doorways  still  stand- 
ing ; but  the  many  wrought  stones  to  be  found  in  fences  and  in  the 
scattered  heaps  in  which  dwell  the  modern  inhabitants  of  the  region, 
suggest  that  the  adobe  walls  had  once  a complete  casing  of  cut  stone. 
Slight  as  are  the  remains,  there  is  still  sufficient  setting  for  the 
fancy  to  picture  Huayna  Ccapac  striding  back  and  forth  upon  his 
lofty  promenade,  looking  upon  his  “ Four  Corners  of  the  Earth,” 
and  halting  in  his  meditations  to  watch  the  imperial  chasquis  racing 
toward  him  across  the  rugged  landscape  with  news  of  the  landing  in 
his  imperial  domains  of  a pale-faced  tribe  with  hair  on  their  faces. 

Hours  of  strenuous  toil,  piloted  only  by  my  pocket-compass,  brought 
me  back  to  the  main  route.  For  a space  it  was  a real  highway,  faced 
with  stone,  but  soon  degenerated  into  a writhing  chaos  of  ruts  and 
rocky  subidas,  like  a road  in  the  throes  of  an  epileptic  fit.  The  sun 
was  still  high  when  I caught  sight  of  Biblian,  its  famous  sanctuary 
standing  out  white  and  clear  against  the  dull  mountainside  above  the 
town.  But  it  was  only  in  the  thickening  dusk  that  I finally  climbed 
into  it. 

A youth  replied  to  my  first  inquiry  with  a “ como  no ! ” — just  as  un- 
excitedly  as  if  strangers  came  to  Biblian  every  year  or  two.  In  the 
dingy  little  shop  to  which  he  led  me,  an  old  woman  whose  greedy  face 
warned  me  to  prepare  for  exorbitant  charges,  even  before  I learned 
she  went  to  church  four  times  a day,  hunted  up  the  enormous  key 
to  an  immense  room  above.  In  a corner  of  it  stood  a bed  at  least 
a century  old,  covered  with  a marvelous  lace  counterpane,  but  harder 
than  macadam.  While  I sat  at  meat  — or,  more  exactly,  at  vege- 
tables, since  Biblian  kills  its  weekly  beef  on  Sunday  and  by  Monday 

185 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


it  is  gone  — the  customary  delegation  of  citizens  came  to  offer  their 
respects.  The  town,  it  proved,  was  oppressed  with  a great  worry. 
The  earthquake  of  a week  before  had  not  merely  tumbled  down  several 
mud  church-towers  of  the  region,  but  had  given  new  life  to  a prophesy 
that  clanged  deafeningly  at  two-second  intervals  without  a break,  ex- 
Biblian  could  not  sleep  of  nights  and  the  priests  were  reaping  a rich 
harvest.  All  night  long  I lay  like  a Hindu  ascetic  on  his  couch  of 
nails,  listening  to  the  exquisite  torture  of  a broken-voiced  church-bell 
that  clanged  deafeningly  at  two-second  intervals  without  a break,  ex- 
cept for  a frequent  wild,  hellish  jangling  of  several  minutes’  duration. 
When  dawn  broke,  the  entire  population  had  already  crowded  into 
the  church  for  early  mass.  A bun  was  not  to  be  had  with  my  morning 
coffee,  because  my  hostess  had  locked  up  the  shop  to  attend  the  second 
ceremony.  I ordered  “breakfast”  for  eleven,  and  a boy  came  to  in- 
form me  that  I must  eat  it  at  nine,  since  from  that  hour  on  senora  la 
patrona  would  again  be  at  church. 

Biblian  is  a city  of  pilgrimage.  By  morning  light  it  proved  to  be 
surrounded  on  all  sides  by  fields  of  corn,  with  countless  capuli-trees 
and  masses  of  geraniums  lending  it  even  more  color  than  the  varie- 
gated blankets  of  its  inhabitants.  The  cup-shaped  valley  was  scattered 
with  scores  of  tiled  cottages  of  the  half-Indian  peasants,  the  hillsides 
a network  of  paths  and  trails  to  their  huts  and  tiny  farms.  The  chief 
road  climbed  to  the  Capilla  on  a crag  well  above  the  town.  It  was  a 
costly,  three-story  structure  richly  decorated  within,  though  a dismal 
mud  hut  served  Biblian  as  school.  The  Virgin  of  Biblian  is  note- 
worthy among  a host  of  her  sisters  in  not  having  come  personally  to 
pick  out  a spot  and  order  the  building  of  her  shelter.  Perhaps  her 
history  is  still  too  recent  for  the  successful  concoction  of  such  tra- 
ditions. In  1893  the  valley  of  Biblian  was  choking  with  drought. 
The  local  cura,  alive  to  his  opportunity,  set  up  an  image  in  a grotto 
on  the  mountainside  and,  consulting  his  barometer,  implored  rain. 
The  drought  was  broken.  In  honor  of  the  feat  the  image  was  named 
the  “ Virgin  of  the  Dew,”  and  pilgrims  began  to  flock  to  Biblian.  In 
the  volume  which  he  has  prepared  for  their  instruction  the  foresighted 
cura  bewails  the  fact  that  “ We  cannot  tell  in  one  book  the  countless 
cures,  assistances,  protections  and  life-savings  the  Blessed  Virgen  del 
Rocio  has  done  for  the  faithful  from  all  over  Ecuador.”  In  the  face 
of  the  appalling  mass  of  proofs  before  him  he  confines  himself  to  none. 
But  he  does  mention  the  miraculous  fact  that  the  first  chapel  had  been 
completed  by  August  of  the  following  year,  and  that  two  years  later 

186 


DOWN  VOLCANO  AVENUE 


the  present  “ sumptuous,  rich,  divine  ” sanctuary  was  sprinkled  with 
holy  water. 

Barely  was  this  dry  when  “ the  troops  of  the  Liberal  party,  like  the 
barbarians  at  the  gates  of  Rome,  threatened  the  afflicted  capital  of  the 
Azuay,  bringing  inevitable  ruin  ” — such,  for  example,  as  the  curbing 
of  the  power  of  the  Church — “ when  the  powerful  Blessed  Virgen  del 
Rocio  was  borne  from  Biblian  to  beleaguered  Cuenca  with  fitting 
reverence  and  in  the  midst  of  the  most  crowded  and  pompous  proces- 
sion in  the  annals  of  that  Catholic  city  ” . . . , whereupon  the  Liberal 
troops  faded  quickly  away,  and  redoubled  the  fame  of  the  Virgin  and 
the  income  of  Biblian  parish.  The  Minister  Plenipotentiary  of  the 
Vatican  has  seen  fit  to  grant  a hundred  days’  indulgence  to  whoever 
visits  the  sanctuary,  “ which  indulgence  may  be  applied  to  souls  in 
Purgatory.”  The  trip  to  Biblian  is  worth  at  least  that.  Lovers  of 
justice  will  rejoice  to  know  that  the  foresighted  cura  bids  fair  to 
enjoy  for  long  years  to  come  his  divine  — knowledge  of  barometers. 

It  is  only  a league  from  Biblian  to  Azogues ; an  hour’s  stroll  along 
a slight  river  through  almost  a forest  of  capuli-trees,  the  wild  cherries 
hanging  in  bunches  something  like  the  grape,  though  with  only  a few 
ripe  at  a time.  Then  comes  a sudden  drop  into  summer ; for  the 
climate  of  Azogues  is  soft  and  bland,  with  little  rain.  About  the  town 
were  hundreds  of  tile  and  thatch-roofed  cottages  among  rich,  green 
cornfields,  spreading  far  away  up  one  valley  and  down  another;  and 
beyond  these  were  tawny  mountain  flanks  mottled  with  every  color 
from  sandy  brown  to  sun-drenched  green. 

The  town  of  Quicksilver  is  rather  that  of  “ panama  ” hats. 
As  in  San  Pablo,  Colombia,  men,  women  and  children  were  braiding 
them  everywhere ; shopkeepers  and  their  clerks  made  hats  in  the  in- 
tervals between  customers,  and  even  while  waiting  on  them ; Indian 
and  chola  women  wove  them  as  they  tramped  along  the  roads  with  a 
bundle,  and  perhaps  a child,  on  their  backs,  as  European  peasant 
women  knit,  or  those  of  other  parts  of  Ecuador  spin  yarn  on  their 
crude  spindles.  I was  assured  that  every  living  person  in  Azogues 
knew  how  to  tejar  sombreros.  The  fops  themselves  were  so  engaged 
somewhere  out  of  sight. 

The  weekly  hat-fair  of  Azogues  began  on  the  Friday  evening  of  my 
arrival.  As  the  afternoon  declined,  there  streamed  in  from  every 
point  of  the  compass,  from  every  hut  among  the  surrounding  corn- 
fields, men,  women,  and  children,  each  carrying  a newly  woven  hat, 
bushy  with  its  uncut  “ straw  ” ends.  A dozen  agents  from  Cuenca 

187 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


bought  these  as  they  arrived,  never  at  the  price  demanded,  but  after  a 
heated  bargaining  to  which,  in  the  end,  the  weavers  always  meekly 
yielded.  Each  buyer  seemed  to  confine  himself  to  some  particular 
grade  or  style ; this  one  to  coarse  “ comunes,”  that  to  large  sizes,  an- 
other to  small,  and  only  two  or  three  to  the  finer  weaves.  As  he 
bought  them,  each  agent  piled  the  hats  on  his  own  head  until  his  face 
was  completely  hidden  behind  the  protruding  ends,  from  the  depths 
of  which  the  bargaining  went  on  unabated. 

Saturday,  however,  is  the  chief  market  day  of  Azogues.  As  I 
strode  out  along  the  highway  to  Cuenca  next  morning,  throngs  were 
pouring  into  the  city  from  every  direction.  For  a full  two  hours  I 
passed  an  endless  stream  of  Indians  as  close  together  as  an  army  in 
column  of  squads,  the  women  carrying  on  their  backs  every  product 
known  to  southern  Ecuador.  The  men,  for  the  most  part,  were  bur- 
dened only  by  a half-dozen  hats,  one  atop  the  other,  the  untrimmed 
ends  hiding  their  faces  as  under  shaggy  straw-colored  beards.  The 
scene  recalled  the  Great  Trunk  Road  of  India,  yet  was  of  vastly  less 
interest  and  variety.  He  who  had  once  seen  an  Ecuadorian  Indian 
had  seen  all  the  procession.  A few  were  weaving  the  last  strands  of 
their  weekly  hat  as  they  hurried  by.  Most  “ panama  ” hats  are  com- 
pleted on  Friday  night  or  in  the  gray  of  Saturday’s  dawn;  for  the 
maker,  frequently  overcome  by  indolence  during  the  week,  must  bestir 
himself  to  have  his  product  ready  in  time  for  his  weekly  debauch. 
Before  he  sallies  forth  to  squander  his  week’s  earnings,  however,  he 
carefully  lays  away  enough  to  purchase  another  tuft  of  “ straw,”  lest 
he  have  no  nest-egg  from  which  to  hatch  next  Saturday’s  celebration. 
The  procession  had  thinned  considerably  before  it  occurred  to  me  to 
count  the  passersby,  and  even  then  132  persons  passed  me  in  a minute, 
each  and  all  bearing  something  for  the  market  of  Azogues.  During 
most  of  the  two  hours  the  number  had  easily  doubled  that,  and  this 
was  only  one  of  the  many  roads  and  trails  leading  to  this  little-known 
town  far  from  modern  transportation. 

Every  house  of  southern  Ecuador  has  a cross  in  the  center  of  its 
ridgepole ; here  they  were  so  elaborate,  so  covered  with  devices  sym- 
bolic of  the  religion  they  represent,  that  it  was  only  by  a stretch  of  the 
imagination  that  one  could  make  out  the  cross  itself  beneath.  Late  in 
the  morning  I came  again  to  the  Azogues  river,  and  a typical  bridge 
of  the  Andes, — opportunity  to  wade  thigh-deep  for  all  who  travel 
afoot  on  this  main  highway  to  southern  Ecuador.  Not  far  beyond, 
there  cantered  by  me  several  wholesale  buyers  from  the  Azogues 

188 


My  home  in  Cuenca,  with  the  Montesinos  family.  The  well-to-do  classes  of  this  city  live  in 
unusual  comfort  for  Ecuador,  and  have  the  custom  of  decorating  the  walls  under  the 
projecting  roofs,  or  those  of  the  patio,  with  exotic  scenes  painted  on  the  wall  itself 


Students  of  the  Colegio  of  Cuenca,  which  confers  the  bachelor  degree  at  the  end  of  a course 
somewhat  similar  to  that  of  our  high  schools.  Misbehavior  is  punished  by  confinement 
in  the  upright  boxes  in  the  background 


DOWN  VOLCANO  AVENUE 


market,  the  saddlebags  of  each  bulging  with  a hundred  or  more  hats, 
stuffed  one  inside  the  other.  Mile  after  mile  the  broad  river-valley 
of  Cuenca  is  forested  with  capuli,  eucalyptus,  and  a Gothic-spired 
willow.  Red,  tile  roofs  stand  strikingly  forth  from  deep-green  corn- 
fields, and  thousands  of  fertile,  cultivated  acres  are  shut  in  by  barren, 
sand-faced  hills,  though  there  are  no  imposing  peaks  south  of  Canar, 
and  I had  seen  none  snow-clad  since  leaving  Riobamba.  With  no 
census  for  twenty-five  years,  the  metropolis  of  southern  Ecuador,  third 
city  of  the  republic,  and  capital  of  the  rich  province  of  Azuay,  esti- 
mates its  population  at  45,000.  Some  have  it  that  this  great  cuenca, 
six  leagues  long,  gouged  out  of  the  Andes,  was  the  original  Tome- 
bamba,  birthplace  of  Huayna  Ccapac.  Like  Riobamba,  the  city  is 
fiat,  its  wide,  cobbled  streets,  crossing  at  right  angles,  stretching  their 
chiefly  one-story  length  away  in  both  directions  almost  as  far  as  the 
eye  can  see.  The  buildings  are  almost  all  of  the  sun-baked  adobe 
mud  that  everywhere  dominates  the  architecture  of  the  Andes ; though 
some  of  the  “ best  families  ” have  striven  to  decorate  their  dwellings 
outwardly  with  huge  mural  paintings  on  the  eaves-protected  walls  of 
patio  and  veranda. 


189 


CHAPTER  VIII 


THROUGH  SOUTHERN  ECUADOR 

AS  susceptible  Don  Giovanni  falls  under  the  succeeding  spell 
of  every  pretty  face,  each  blotting  out  those  that  went  before, 
so  the  traveler  down  the  backbone  of  South  America  fre- 
quently concludes  that  he  has  found  at  last  the  climate  copied  from 
the  Garden  of  Eden.  Such  a spot  is  Cuenca,  dimming  by  comparison 
its  latest  rival,  Quito,  and  I find  in  my  notes  of  the  exuberant  first  day 
there  the  assertion : “ Of  all  the  earth,  as  far  as  I know  it,  Cuenca 

has  the  most  perfect  climate.”  Always  cool  enough  to  be  mildly 
invigorating  to  mind  and  body,  yet  never  cold,  it  is  unexcelled  as  a 
place  for  dreamy  loafing.  The  sunshine  vastly  exceeds  the  shadow, 
and  its  situation  is  peerless  — not  in  the  scenery  of  its  surrounding 
mountains,  which  are  distant  and  low,  but  in  the  rich  fertility  of  this 
great  vale  of  Paucarbamba  (“  Flowery  Plain”),  as  the  Incas  called  it. 
Cuenca  has  no  fitting  excuse  for  not  being  one  of  the  richest  agricul- 
tural cities  on  earth.  Yet  its  only  “ hotels  ” are  dirty  little  Indian 
eating-houses  without  sleeping  accommodations,  and  the  traveler  must 
fall  back  on  the  prehistoric  system  of  hunting  up  a friend’s  friend. 
For  once  this  round-about  method  brought  handsome  results;  at  the 
home  of  the  Montesinos  brothers  I found  my  most  home-like  accom- 
modations south  of  Quito,  in  a highly  cultured  family  with  no  scent 
of  the  public  hostelry  about  it.  My  front  door  opened  on  a vista 
across  the  patio  and  the  long  market  plaza,  usually  shimmering  with 
Indians  and  clashing  colors,  to  the  blue  hills  and  a strip  of  Dresden- 
china  sky  to  the  west ; and  it  is  only  fair  to  the  Andes  to  mention  that 
this  extraordinary  family  had  erected  in  a back  patio  a well-appointed 
lavatory,  stoutly  padlocked  against  the  Indians  of  the  hotfsehold. 

The  Montesinos  brothers,  sons  of  a former  governor  of  the  Province 
of  Azuay,  were  lawyers,  as  well  as  professors  in  Cuenca’s  colegio, 
leaders  in  the  intellectual  life  of  the  city,  excellent  examples  of  the 
best  grade  of  “ interandino.”  One  was  a teacher  of  French  and  Eng- 
lish, which  did  not  seriously  mean  that  he  could  speak  either  of  those 
tongues.  In  1899  this  bookish,  somewhat  effeminate  man  had  started 
a revolution  against  the  Alfaro  government  in  the  person  of  General 

190 


THROUGH  SOUTHERN  ECUADOR 


Franco,  a blood-thirsty  half-negro  from  Esmeraldas,  who  had  been 
made  governor  of  Azuay.  It  proved  unsuccessful,  and  the  instigator 
had  been  forced  to  fly  to  the  jungled  Oriente  and  live  for  months 
among  the  head-hunting  Jivaros  Indians.  I had  hesitated  to  believe 
my  own  convictions  on  certain  conditions  in  Ecuador,  but  this  frank 
and  outspoken  native  outdid  anything  I might  have  said.  His  attitude 
was  in  striking  contrast  to  that  belligerent  “ pride  ” of  Latin-American 
governments  and  their  led  mobs  and  self-seeking  politicians.  To  him 
the  thrice-beloved  “ patriotism  ” of  his  hot-tempered  fellows  was  rub- 
bish. What  he  wanted  was  an  efficient  government  and  a chance  to 
live  a free  life,  whether  he  remained  a subject  of  the  particular  strip  of 
territory  known  as  Ecuador,  or  of  the  gigantic  “ Yanqui-land  ” so 
many  seemed  to  fancy  imminent.  He  asserted  that  the  police  of 
Cuenca  were  its  worst  criminals ; all  thieves  and  ruffians  who  could 
not  be  openly  convicted  were  sentenced  to  serve  as  policemen.  Except 
in  the  collecting  of  taxes  and  as  a place  of  reward  for  its  henchmen, 
the  central  government  leaves  Cuenca  and  the  south  of  Ecuador 
virtually  abandoned,  and  that  tendency,  so  general  in  Latin-American 
countries,  for  the  more  distant  parts  to  break  away  and  form  a free, 
or  at  least  autonomous  state  is  here  marked.  The  region  labors  under 
a thousand  petty  annoyances.  For  instance,  Quito  has  a parcel-post 
service  with  the  outside  world,  but  Cuenca  has  none,  nor  any  money- 
order  system,  and  about  one  piece  of  mail  in  three  ever  reaches  an 
addressee  in  the  capital  of  the  Azuay.  A package  mailed  from  abroad 
to  a cuencano  lies  in  Guayaquil  until  the  addressee  appears  in  person, 
or  appoints  a lawyer,  to  lay  claim  to  it,  to  pay  the  fees  and  grease 
the  wheels  of  the  legal  and  illegal  formalities  necessary  to  set  it  on 
its  way  to  its  destination. 

To  our  modern  notions  Cuenca  is  not  much  of  a city ; yet  here  in 
the  almost  untracked  wilderness  it  seemed  enormous.  So  rarely  do 
strangers  visit  it  that,  large  as  it  is  and  in  spite  of  my  entirely  con- 
ventional appearance,  I could  barely  pause  in  the  street  without  all 
work  in  the  vicinity  ceasing  and  a crowd  gathering  about  me.  Hungry 
to  behold  a new  face  as  the  crew  of  a windjammer  that  has  gazed 
only  upon  themselves  during  long  months  at  sea,  their  attitude  seemed 
to  say,  “We  can  work  to-morrow,  but  there  is  no  certainty  that  we 
can  have  the  pleasure  of  looking  at  a stranger.”  It  is  hard  for  Amer- 
icans, with  their  wide  outlook  and  accustomed  to  the  complicated 
existence  of  our  large  cities,  to  realize  the  narrowness  of  life  in  these 
placid  old  adobe  towns  hidden  away  in  the  Andes.  Virtually  cut  off 

191 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


from  the  outside  world,  the  cuencanos  are  a peculiarly  bookish  people. 
“ We  do  not  know,”  said  Montesinos,  “ that  there  are  places  on  the 
globe  where  men  live  in  freedom  and  decency,  except  from  books.” 
Yet  in  spite  of  being  rather  uncertain  of  their  dignity,  like  all  isolated 
peoples,  the  educated  classes  were  as  well-meaning,  as  simpaticos,  as 
any  I met  in  Latin-America.  Two  things  only  were  necessary  to  join 
the  upper  caste, — a white  collar  and  visiting-cards.  The  former  above 
a patched  “ hand-me-down  ” was  more  effective  than  a new  $100  suit 
worn  with  a flannel  shirt ; and  the  man  who  has  his  name  printed  on 
bits  of  cardboard,  to  exchange  with  regal  courtesy  and  profound  bows 
with  every  upper-class  acquaintance,  is  instantly  accepted  as  of  gente 
decente  origin.  Indeed,  visiting  cards  should  be  as  fixed  a part  of 
every  Andean  traveler’s  equipment  as  heavy  boots. 

One  could  not  but  pity  these  ineffectually  ambitious  mortals,  kept 
down  by  leaden  environment  and  isolation.  He  who  does  not  deal 
in  “ panama  ” hats  has  hardly  an  opening  in  Cuenca,  except  to  study 
medicine,  law,  or  theology  in  the  local  colegio ; hence  there  is  a 
plethora  of  “ doctors  ” who  can  only  wear  their  titles  and  live  the  life 
of  enforced  bookworms,  forbidden  by  the  rigid  rules  of  caste  even  the 
privilege  of  turning  their  hands  to  some  useful  occupation.  As  in 
Bogota,  the  very  isolation  and  lack  of  opportunity  has  driven  many 
to  their  studies,  and  Cuenca  numbers  many  writers  among  her  “ sons,” 
producers  chiefly  of  that  languid,  half-melancholy,  pretty  poetry,  full 
of  the  “ fine  writing  ” the  divorce  from  life  and  unlimited  leisure  to 
polish  their  gems  of  thought  gives.  In  all  Cuenca  there  is  only  one 
mean  little  bookshop,  selling  religious  tracts  and  translations  of 
American  and  English  “ penny  dreadfuls.”  The  intelectuales  can  only, 
as  it  were,  feed  upon  each  other  and  form  mutual  admiration  societies, 
where  admiration  soon  palls  from  too  constant  familiarity  and  lack  of 
new  blood.  Few,  even  of  the  “ best  families,”  have  ever  been  out  of 
the  cuenca,  or  basin,  in  which  the  city  lies,  and  its  isolation  has  given 
the  place  something  of  the  atmosphere  the  traveler  is  always  seeking  — 
commonly  in  vain  — of  a world  wholly  removed  from  outside  in- 
fluence. 

Their  ineffective  eagerness  to  learn  was  pathetic.  The  most  nearly 
educated  young  men  of  the  town  had  rented  a second-story  hall  near 
the  main  plaza  and  decorated  its  faqade  with  huge  letters  announcing 
it  the  “ English  Language  Club.”  Here  the  score  or  so  of  more  or 
less  English-speaking  residents  of  the  male  sex  gathered  together 
several  evenings  a week. 


192 


The  “English  Language  Club”  of  Cuenca  in  full  session 


An  hacienda-house  of  southern  Ecuador,  backed  by  its  grove  of  eucalyptus-trees.  The 
owner  or  the  mayordomo  occupies  the  two-story  structure,  while  the  rest  of  the  house- 
hold string  out  in  regular  caste  gradations  to  the  kitchen  and  outhouses 


THROUGH  SOUTHERN  ECUADOR 


For  years,  however,  there  had  not  been  a genuine  English-speak- 
ing person  living  permanently  anywhere  near  Cuenca.  In  their  eager- 
ness to  capture  an  authority  the  club  drafted  me  at  once,  and  whole 
delegations  were  always  ready  to  go  about  and  show  me  the  town  and 
vicinity  — provided  it  was  a not  too  distant  vicinity,  for  they  had  as 
great  a dread  as  the  quiteho  of  getting  far  from  the  central  plaza.  I 
was  received  kindly  and  eagerly  by  the  educated  men  anywhere,  so 
long  as  it  did  not  involve  my  intrusion  on  the  Moorish  seclusion  of 
their  family  life,  and  became  a sort  of  honored  guest  of  the  town, 
even  if  I was  not  presented  with  the  key  to  it,  which  by  comparison 
• with  the  door-keys  would  have  been  a burden  indeed.  They  were  not 
“ spenders  ” ; money  comes  slowly  and  with  too  great  a strain  in  these 
parts,  but  they  were  ever  on  the  lookout  to  do  me  little  kindnesses. 

Barely  was  I settled,  therefore,  when  I was  hurried  off  to  an  evening 
at  the  “ English  Language  Club,”  convoked  in  special  session.  For 
an  hour  I sat  like  the  chief  buffoon  in  a comic-opera  ensemble  in  the 
center  of  a horseshoe  circle  that  included  a score  of  doctors  — 
Cuenca  swarms  with  doctors,  home-made  and  book-trained  — the 
grandsons  of  presidents,  sons  of  ministers  to  Washington  and  the 
court  of  St.  James,  while  the  whole  gathering,  like  self-conscious 
school-boys,  got  off  a sentence  or  two  in  more  or  less  English  in 
regular  rotation  around  the  circle,  until  some  shining  genius  sug- 
gested that,  as  they  had  so  illustrious  a guest  with  them,  it  was 
merely  a “ social  evening  ” and  not  a regular  meeting ; hence  the  rule 
demanding  that  only  English  be  spoken  was  not  in  force.  With  a 
veritable  explosion  of  relief  the  entire  club  burst  into  Spanish,  and 
Alfonzo  was  himself  again. 

Later  experience  proved  that  the  rule  was  largely  a dead-letter  even 
at  regular  meetings,  and  only  to  be  enforced  when  the  arrival  of  an 
illustrious  stranger  put  the  club  on  parade.  The  walls  were  hung 
with  several  mottoes  in  English,  and  they  had  gathered  together  some 
belated  American  magazines  and  a billiard  table.  There  the  members 
gathered  several  evenings  a week  to  play  “ pocar,”  and  to  practice 
very  intermittently  such  English  as  they  had  learned  from  the  printed 
page,  forming  their  sentences  and  — what  was  worse  — their  pronun- 
ciation from  the  rules  books  had  to  offer,  and  mixing  in  with  it  a bit 
of  a similar  brand  of  French,  as  if  any  foreign  language  answered  more 
or  less  the  purposes  of  the  club.  The  rules  forbade  the  use  within 
the  club-room  of  any  tongue  than  our  own,  but  after  the  first  few  set 
greetings  of  “ goot  nig-ht,  how  do  yo  do  ? ” the  gathering  settled  down 

193 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


to  an  uproar  of  Castilian,  broken  only  by  the  few  phrases  of  Cuenca- 
English  which  custom  had  stereotyped.  The  majority  came  to  play 
“ pocar,”  not  so  much  because  of  the  opportunities  that  pastime  offered 
for  one  of  the  Latin-American’s  chief  failings  — for  pockets  were 
seldom  bulging  — but  because  it  smacked  of  the  United  States,  the 
stepmother  of  the  “ English  Language  Club  ” of  Cuenca.  The 
son  of  a former  Ecuadorian  minister  to  Washington,  who  had  spent 
a year  or  two  in  “ Yanqui-land,”  shared  with  “ el  Senor  Doctor  Mon- 
tesinos,  profesor  de  ingles  en  nuestro  colegio,”  the  position  of  final 
authority  on  the  tongue,  except  on  those  rare  occasions  when  a traveler 
brought  the  real,  dyed-in-the-wool  article  with  him.  Even  the  au- 
thorities were  not  faultless.  They  said  “ dissiples  ” for  pupils,  used 
habitually  the  expression  “ I can  to  go,”  and  clung  tenaciously  to 
similar  choice  bits  of  their  own  convictions,  and,  what  was  worse, 
drilled  them  into  their  fellow-members  with  that  dogmatism  strongest 
in  those  who  are  wrong.  But  the  minister’s  son  had  made  the  most 
of  his  American  residence  in  learning  “ pocar  ” so  thoroughly  that  he 
was  as  real  an  authority  on  that  art  as  he  fancied  himself  in  English. 
Unfortunately,  the  combined  efforts  of  the  club  had  not  unearthed 
among  all  the  dog-eared  classics  that  had  drifted  together  in  genera- 
tions of  Cuenca’s  flirting  with  English  the  mention  in  print  of 
that  fascinating  pastime.  Whence  they  had  been  forced  to  adopt 
their  own  spelling  and  home-made  phrases.  On  the  wall  appeared  a 
warning  placard,  “ Those  which  play  pocar  are  speaking  English,” 
and  each  game  was  sprinkled  with  a rapid-fire  of  Spanish,  punctuated 
by  fixed  phrases  of  near-English.  Thus  the  expressions  “ You  bid,” 
or  “ You  open,”  had  been  concocted  by  the  simple  means  of  literal 
translation  from  the  Castilian  used  in  similar  pastimes,  and  became 
“ You  speak.”  Amid  the  crack  of  billiard-balls  and  the  rattling  of 
home-made  chips  the  conversation  ran  on  much  as  follows : 

“ Cordero,  you  are  serveeng.  Y hombre,  ya  le  dije  que  la  much- 
acha  no  . . .” 

“ Fife  cards ; all  ze  workeengs,  Carlos.” 

“ Lindisima,  hombre,  pero  su  mama.  . . . Enriquito,  you  speak.” 

“ No,  senor,  equivocado,  I am  speakeeng.” 

“ Caramba ! Es  verdad.  Eet  ees  true.  And  for  how  much  are 
you  speakeeng  ? ” 

“ No,  et  ees  meestake.  Ze  doctor  is  speakeeng,  because  he  is  sitteeng 
by  ze  side  of  Juancito,  which  ees  serveeng  ze  cards,” — and  with 
deep  solemnity  the  doctor  proceeded  to  “ speak  ” by  throwing  two 

194 


THROUGH  SOUTHERN  ECUADOR 


Cuenca-made  chips  on  the  table,  the  game  rattling  on  until  Munoz 
broke  in  upon  an  oratorical  description  of  the  latest  event  of  the  vida 
social  of  Cuenca  with  a: 

“And  I am  nameeng  you  now,  Carlitos ; with  ze  house  full  of  ze 
whole  kettle,”  and  throwing  down  a “ full  house,”  he  scraped  the 
entire  pile  of  chips  to  his  corner  of  the  table. 

There  were  two  dentists  in  Cuenca  at  the  time  of  my  visit.  One 
of  those  present  was  not  there  in  person,  because  he  had  gone  away  on 
a week’s  journey  two  months  before;  the  other  had  not  yet  arrived, 
though  he  appeared  nightly  at  the  “ English  Language  Club,”  because 
his  instruments  of  torture  and  gold-plated  diploma  were  still  some- 
where on  the  road  from  Guayaquil.  Had  they  both  been  unqualifiedly 
present  in  the  flesh,  the  wise  man  would  have  continued  to  endure 
any  degree  of  toothache  rather  than  submit  to  their  amateurish 
mercies.  The  chief  raison  d’etre  of  the  city  is  its  commerce  in 
“ panama  ” hats,  though  virtually  none  are  made  there.  The  agent 
sent  to  Azogues  or  other  neighboring  towns  pencils  in  some  cabalistic 
code  on  the  inside  of  the  hat  the  price  paid  the  weaver  — or  as  near 
that  price  as  his  conscience  makes  necessary  — and  delivers  it  to  his 
employer.  In  the  city  are  many  “ factories  of  sombreros,”  from  be- 
hind the  down-cast  mud  fronts  of  which  sounds  all  day  long  the 
pounding  of  wooden  mallets,  and  from  which  exudes  the  constant 
smell  of  sulphur.  At  the  establishment  of  a club-member  we  posed 
for  a local  photographer  in  acres  of  hats,  in  various  stages  of  the 
finishing  process,  which  ranged  from  the  huge  Gualaquiza  products 
from  the  Jivaros  country  on  the  east,  to  those  of  so  fine  a weave  as 
to  be  inferior  only  to  the  famous  jipijapa  of  Manabi. 

It  is  just  over  the  range  from  Cuenca  that  are  to  be  found  the 
Jivaros,  the  widely  renowned  head-hunters  of  the  upper  Amazon. 
Montesinos  had  lived  long  months  among  them  at  the  time  of  his  mis- 
hap, and  knew  their  ways  well.  A proud,  untamed  race  engaged  in 
almost  constant  warfare  with  the  neighboring  tribes,  they  consider  the 
white  man  an  equal,  and  treat  him  as  a friend  so  long  as  he  does  not 
transgress  their  strict  tribal  laws.  The  Andean  Indian,  with  his  slink- 
ing air  and  his  heavy  clothing,  they  look  down  upon  as  a weakling  and 
a very  inferior  being.  Having  despatched  an  enemy,  the  Jivaros  cut 
off  the  head  well  down  on  the  shoulders,  extract  the  skull  by  a vertical 
cut  at  the  back,  sew  up  this  and  the  lips,  and,  by  the  insertion  of  hot 
stones  and  a process  only  imperfectly  understood  by  any  other  than  the 
tribe  itself,  reduce  the  head  to  the  size  of  an  orange,  with  the  original 

195 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


features  easily  recognizable.  In  this  state  it  is  said  to  be  of  little  use 
to  its  rightful  owner,  even  if  recovered.  The  desiccated  head  must, 
according  to  tribal  laws,  be  kept  until  after  the  yearly  ceremony  to  ap- 
pease the  spirit  of  the  dead  man,  after  which  it  is  hung  up  as  a trophy 
over  the  entrance  to  the  successful  hunter’s  house,  or,  what  is  far 
more  usual  of  late  years,  traded  to  some  passing  white  man  for  a rifle 
or  a supply  of  cartridges.  One  traveler  I met  had  been  so  eager  to 
obtain  one  of  the  dried  heads  that  he  offered  a Jivaro  chief  two  rifles. 
The  chief  replied  sadly  that,  though  he  would  do  anything  possible  to 
get  a rifle,  unfortunately  it  happened  that  the  tribe  did  not  have  a 
single  dried  head  on  hand.  “ But,”  he  cried  a moment  later,  his 
countenance  brightening  visibly,  “ could  you  wait  a month  or  so?  ” 

A few  years  ago  a tall,  lanky  German  arrived  in  Cuenca  and  went 
down  among  the  Jivaros  to  study  their  customs,  and  especially  to  find 
out  exactly  how  they  shrink  heads.  Month  after  month  passed  with- 
out a word  from  him,  but  cuencanos  knew  the  Teuton  way  of  pur- 
suing an  investigation  step  by  step  in  all  its  details  and  ramifications, 
and  thought  nothing  of  the  prolonged  absence.  Then  one  day,  more 
than  a year  later,  there  was  offered  for  sale  in  the  market  of  Cuenca 
a splendid  specimen  of  shrunken  head,  with  long,  blond  hair  and  beard 
and  a scholarly  cast  of  countenance.  The  investigation  had  been 
thorough ; but  the  outside  world  still  remains  in  darkness  on  the  art 
of  shrinking  heads  among  the  Jivaros. 

To  the  stranger,  perhaps  the  feature  of  Cuenca  that  will  remain 
longest  in  his  memory  is  her  street  lights;  certainly,  if  it  happens  to  be 
his  lot  to  have  to  find  his  way  home  on  a black  night  after  a sad,  candle- 
lighted  “ comedy  ” in  the  local  theater  — the  school-room  of  the 
colegio.  The  laws  of  Cuenca  require  that  every  resident  in  the  prin- 
cipal streets  set  up  a candle  before  his  house.  But  as  the  two-cent 
velas  which  are  satisfactory  to  the  law  are  short  and  not  particularly 
inflammable,  and  the  wind  is  given  to  blowing  its  hardest  during  the 
first  hour  after  dusk,  the  city  changes  long  before  eight  from  long, 
faintly-guessed  lanes  between  unseen  house-walls  to  a medieval  inky 
blackness.  The  inhabitant  who  stirs  abroad  carries  a square  glass 
box  containing  a flickering  candle,  or  is  accompanied  by  a “ link- 
boy,”  in  true  medieval  fashion.  The  stranger  who,  being  no  smoker, 
chances  not  even  to  have  matches  with  him,  feels  his  way  homeward 
for  an  uncertain  number  of  blocks  by  counting  them  with  his  fingers, 
at  last  discovering  the  plaza  on  which  he  lives  by  hugging  the  corner 
of  it.  Shivering  with  uncertainty  as  to  whether  his  lodging  is  the 

196 


THROUGH  SOUTHERN  ECUADOR 


third  or  the  fourth  door  from  the  butchershop  with  the  protruding 
hook,  here  and  there  stumbling  over  a piece  of  sidewalk  or  into  a 
puddle,  he  finally  coaxes  his  gigantic  key  to  fit  its  lock  with  some- 
thing far  more  potent  than  satisfaction. 

Thus  life  runs  its  placid  course  in  this  far-off  city  of  the  Andes. 
Those  who  come  there  after  the  railway  from  Huigra  reaches  Cuenca, 
if  long-pondered  plans  some  day  mature,  will  no  doubt  find  it  different, 
more  blase  and  less  likable,  no  longer  one  of  the  rewards  of  toiling 
over  the  world’s  byways.  Even  electric  lights  are  threatened,  and  be- 
fore them  will  flee  one  of  its  most  nearly  unique  characteristics. 

The  hope  of  securing  an  ass  to  stagger  out  of  Cuenca  under  my 
possessions  had  melted  day  by  day  during  my  week  there.  In  what 
I had  been  assured  was  the  best  donkey-market  in  Ecuador,  those 
animals  proved  both  scarce  and  high  in  price.  Toward  the  end  of 
my  stay  the  baggage  I had  sent  from  Huigra  had  arrived,  both  de- 
veloping tank  and  tray  broken,  in  spite  of  the  vociferous  promises  of 
the  Hetcro,  though  still  serviceable  with  elaborate  manipulation.  It 
was  chiefly  picture-taking  that  forced  me  to  turn  pack-horse ; had  I 
been  able  to  abandon  everything  connected  with  photography,  I might 
have  pranced  along  like  a school-boy  under  his  knowledge.  A pack 
of  nearly  fifty  pounds  remained,  in  spite  of  a rigid  reduction  and  a 
desperate  throwing  away  which  included  even  my  medicine  case,  be- 
queathed to  Montesinos,  for  ever  since  crossing  the  Rio  Grande  into 
Mexico  seventeen  months  before  I had  been  burdened  with  it,  without 
a single  excuse  to  swallow  one  of  its  myriad  pills.  If  only  Edison 
would  take  a day  off  to  invent  a baggage  on  legs  that  would  trot,  dog- 
fashion,  after  its  owner  — just  a modest  little  baggage  of,  say,  fifty 
pounds  — it  would  revolutionize  life. 

Distinguished  visitors  to  the  cities  of  the  Andes  are,  in  all  accounts 
extant,  met  upon  their  arrival  and  sent  on  their  way  by  a cavalcade  of 
horsemen  including  all  the  local  celebrities.  For  the  first  time  in  my 
Latin- American  journey  I was  accompanied  by  a guard  of  honor  as 
I plodded  heavily  out  of  Cuenca  on  March  tenth ; that  is,  Montesinos, 
the  master  of  “ English,”  strolled  with  me  across  the  ancient  cobbled 
bridge  over  the  Matadero  and  a mile  or  more  beyond,  until  he  met  the 
sun  coming  up  from  the  jungled  montana  of  the  Jivaros  and  turned 
back  with  the  market-bound  Indians  to  his  scholastic  duties.  The 
broad  highway  was  dry  and  hard  as  a floor.  Prepared  in  my  heavy 
boots  for  the  usual  Andean  trail,  I could  have  walked  it  in  dancing- 
pumps.  The  great  cuenca  shrunk  to  an  ever-narrower,  fertile  valley, 

197 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


stretching  southward  along  a little  stream  called  the  Tarqui.  A score 
of  Indians  were  plowing  a single  field  with  ox-drawn  plows  fashioned 
from  forest  trees.  So  scant  is  his  individual  initiative  that  the 
Andean  husbandman  works  well  only  in  company  with  his  fellows, 
and  the  experienced  mayordomo  conducts  his  farming  in  a succession 
of  “ bees  ” in  which  all  the  employees  join  efforts,  as  in  the  days  of 
the  Inca. 

The  Andes  grow  higher  and  more  mountainous  to  the  south.  Be- 
yond the  hacienda  and  the  hamlet  of  Cumbe  next  morning,  the  valley 
closed  in  and  forced  the  highway  to  scale,  like  an  escaping  prisoner 
his  walls,  the  great  Andean  “ Knot  ” of  Portete.  Bit  by  bit  it  shrunk 
to  a narrow  road,  then  to  a rocky  trail,  like  a man  about  to  begin  some 
mighty  task,  with  no  longer  time  to  consider  his  personal  appearance, 
reducing  himself  to  the  bare  essentials.  Through  clumps  of  black- 
berries and  frost-bitten  corn  it  climbed,  then  shook  off  even  these,  and 
split  into  faint,  diverging  paths  across  another  of  those  lofty,  wind- 
swept, solitary  paramos  of  the  Andes,  broken  here  and  there,  only 
scantily  covered  with  the  dreary  dead-brown  ichu  bunch-grass  of  the 
highlands,  and  low,  bushy  achup alias. 

It  would  have  been  more  to  the  point  if  the  sympathy  the  old  woman 
of  the  hacienda  behind  had  taken  the  form  of  fiambre,  a roadster’s 
lunch,  with  which  to  follow  up  the  coffee  and  diaphanous  roll  of  an 
Ecuadorian  dcsayuno.  By  ten  I was  starving.  By  eleven  I had  eaten 
even  the  rose  I wore  in  a button-hole;  during  the  next  few  hours  I 
found  three  blackberries,  hard  and  green,  and  shook  dice  with  sudden 
death  by  eating  a handful  of  a wholly  unknown  and  even  more  taste- 
less paramo  berry.  The  one  Indian  I met  during  the  afternoon  mis- 
informed me,  before  he  sped  on  out  of  reach,  that  Nabon  was  a bare 
two  leagues  beyond;  and  all  the  rest  of  the  day  my  imagination  per- 
sisted in  heaping  up  mighty  banquets  that  toppled  over  and  faded 
away  as  I prepared  to  fall  upon  them. 

Suddenly  the  paramo  ended  as  if  it  had  been  hacked  off  with  a dull 
gigantic  machete,  and  the  way-worn,  haggard  trail  stumbled  blindly 
down  into  a labyrinthian  chaos  of  jagged  white  rocks,  like  an  arctic 
sea  in  upheaval,  an  earthquake  section  as  split  and  smashed  and  broken 
as  if  the  world  had  come  into  collision  at  this  point  with  another 
planet  or  a celestial  lamp-post.  When  at  last  I sighted  Nabon,  long 
after  I had  entered  it  a score  of  times  in  imagination,  it  was  still  a 
mere  speck  on  a broken  edge  of  the  earth’s  crust  which  I reached  by 
dusk  only  by  dint  of  a herculean  struggle. 

198 


THROUGH  SOUTHERN  ECUADOR 


It  was  a cornfield  town  of  thatched  mud  huts,  of  universally  Indian 
blood.  The  alcalde  was  not  at  home,  but  the  priest’s  word  was  law, 
and  I was  soon  dropping  my  bundle  from  my  grateful  shoulders  in 
the  “ best  room  ” of  an  Indian  dwelling.  My  unwilling  host  removed 
the  bedclothes  and  piled  them  on  the  uneven  earth  floor  in  an  ad- 
joining room,  for  himself,  wife  and  child,  and  left  me  the  wooden- 
floored  bedstead.  The  mud  walls  were  embellished  not  merely  with 
the  gaudy  colored  chromos  of  various  “ Virgins,”  but  with  scores  of 
the  advertising  pages  of  American  magazines,  chiefly  pictorial,  for  the 
family  could  not  even  read  its  own  tongue.  I did  not  succeed  in  dis- 
covering how  these  exotic  reminders  of  home  had  found  their  way  to 
this  unknown  village  of  the  Andes.  The  Indian  and  his  wife  kept 
me  awake  half  the  night  with  their  alternating  prayers  and  responses 
before  a candle-lighted  lithograph  in  the  adjoining  room,  each  prayer 
beginning,  “Blessed  Santa  Maria,  give  us  this;  Blessed  Santa  Maria, 
give  us  that.”  One  would  have  thought  Maria  ran  a department 
store. 

It  is  only  eighteen  miles  from  Nabon  to  Ona,  but  no  mere  words 
can  give  any  suggestion  of  the  labyrinthian  toil  that  lies  between 
them.  Down  in  the  bottom  of  the  mightiest  chasm  of  this  tortured 
section  of  the  earth  sits  an  isolated  peak  shaped  like  an  angular  hay- 
cock. From  the  lowest  point  of  the  day’s  tramp  I could  not  see  its 
summit ; when  I looked  back  hours  later  upon  the  immense  stretch  of 
gashed  and  tumbled  world  behind  me,  the  peak  had  sunk  to  a mere  dot 
on  the  landscape.  Yet  in  a way  it  was  an  ideal  tramp.  A sun-flooded 
day  in  the  exhilarating  mountain  air  passed  in  absolute  silence  without 
even  the  sight  of  a fellow  mortal,  except  very  rarely  a lone  shepherd 
so  far  away  on  a bare  brown  mountainside  as  to  be  merely  a tiny 
detail  of  the  scenery.  There  was  one  drawback,  also ; for  the  spider- 
leg  trails  split  and  spread  at  random  across  the  world  above  at  every 
opportunity,  and  for  several  hours  at  a time  I was  not  at  all  certain  I 
was  going  to  Peru. 

At  length  I rounded  a lofty  spur,  and  another  great  valley  opened 
out  before  me.  An  hour  later  I prepared  to  present  my  note  to  the 
cura  of  Ona.  His  two  housekeepers,  attractive  chola  girls,  received 
me  with  the  customary  coldness  of  their  class  toward  strangers,  and 
the  information  that  the  padre  “had  gone  to  the  mountain.”  “ Ya  no 
mas  de  venir  — he  should  be  back  at  any  moment  ” — murmured  one 
of  them ; which  might  mean,  of  course,  that  he  would  be  back  in  an 
hour  or  a week.  There  was  no  one  else  in  this  shelf-like  hillside  of 

199 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


mud  huts  around  a dead  plaza  surrounded  by  cornfields  who  would  be 
likely  to  house  me,  and  I could  only  wait  in  hungry  patience.  Night 
was  falling  like  a quick  curtain  at  the  end  of  a dismal  act,  when  one  of 
the  stupid  damsels  admitted  “ probably  he  will  not  be  back  to-night,” 
but  that  they  would  serve  “ a little  something  to  eat,”  if  I could  wait 
awhile.  I was  already  accustomed  to  that  occupation.  On  a work- 
table of  the  earth-floored  and  walled  corredor,  among  the  parrots  that 
kept  calling  the  cholas  by  name,  a chained  monkey  of  homicidal 
tendencies,  and  other  cural  odds  and  ends,  a meal  of  several  courses 
was  at  length  set  before  me  as  rapidly  as  the  single  tin  plate  could  be 
washed  and  refilled.  Ona  does  not  eat  bread,  but  so  large  a helping 
of  mote  was  served  that  I succeeded  in  filling  a coat  pocket  with  it, 
well  knowing  that  no  other  provisions  would  be  forthcoming  for  the 
morrow’s  uninhabited  trail.  As  a food,  this  mess  of  boiled  kernels  of 
ripe  corn,  chief  sustenance  of  the  Andean  Indian  on  his  travels,  is 
like  those  medicines  that  are  worse  than  the  ailment  they  are  designed 
to  cure.  Then  there  was  a plate  of  black  beans,  a corn  tamale,  and  a 
tasteless  preserved  fruit,  all  stone-cold,  but  red-hot  with  the  aji,  or 
green  peppers,  with  which  all  food  in  the  Andes  is  enlivened. 

Hours  later  a group  of  horsemen  rode  up  out  of  the  night  and 
halted  before  the  casa  cural.  I rose  from  a cramped  doze  on  a cor- 
redor bench  to  find  the  priest  dismounting.  A brawny  man  of  massive 
frame,  more  than  six  feet  tall,  with  well-cut  features  and  a powerful 
Roman  nose,  dressed  in  a black  robe  reaching  to  his  spurs,  and  a huge 
“ panama  ” hat  of  exceedingly  fine  weave  — a present,  no  doubt,  from 
some  fond  member  of  his  flock  among  the  surrounding  hills  — he 
towered  far  above  his  companions.  A cigarette  smouldered  between 
his  lips,  a week’s  growth  of  dense  black  beard  half-covered  a face  that 
bore  testimony  to  long  and  deep  experience  in  worldly  matters,  and  his 
voice  boomed  like  Quito’s  largest  church-bell.  Yet  his  manner  was 
that  syrupy  courtesy,  accompanied  by  a whining  speech,  peculiar  to  the 
region.  He  fawned  upon  all  who  approached  him,  addressing  them 
with  maudlin  words  of  endearment, — “ Ah,  compadrecito  ! ” “ Oh, 

my  dearest  of  friends!  ” “ Oh,  Josecito  cholito,  hi j ito  mio  ! ” — with  a 

long-drawn,  rising  and  falling  inflection  that  made  his  speech  seem  even 
more  false  and  insincere  than  it  was  in  reality.  Me  he  greeted  in  the 
same  tone,  like  a long-lost  “ amiguito,”  and  assured  me  the  casa  cural 
was  henceforth  my  personal  property,  expressing  his  deepest  regret 
that  he  had  just  sent  to  Cuenca,  where  he  was  about  to  be  transferred, 
his  two  phonographs  and  “ diez  mil  pesos”  ($5000  worth)  of  other 

200 


Plowing  for  wheat  or  corn  on  the  hacienda  of  Cumbe.  The  Indians  work  best  in  “bees,”  as  in  the  time  of  the  Incas.  The  plows  are 
mere  crooked  sticks  without  a vestige  of  iron,  the  yokes  are  fastened  in  front  of  the  horns  with  rawhide  thongs 


THROUGH  SOUTHERN  ECUADOR 


toys.  It  was  a typical  cural  residence  of  the  Andes.  The  rough 
adobe  walls  of  his  cluttered  study,  with  mud  benches  in  the  form  of 
divans  around  them,  were  almost  completely  covered  with  large  litho- 
graphs advertising  various  brands  of  whiskey  and  cigarettes,  more 
than  half  of  them  showing  nude  female  figures.  Under  his  table  was 
spread  out  to  dry  a six-foot  square  patch  of  tobacco,  and  at  frequent 
intervals  the  padre  reached  under  it  for  the  “ makings  ” of  a cigarette, 
without  taking  his  eyes  off  his  visitors  nor  ceasing  the  flow  of  his 
cadenced  endearments. 

Two  men,  chiefly  of  Indian  blood,  soon  joined  us,  one  the  jefe 
politico,  and  the  other  what  might  be  called  in  English  chairman  of  the 
town  council.  The  former  carried  a guitar,  the  latter  a quart  bottle  of 
aguardiente,  and  both  a stimulated  gaiety  even  greater  than  that  of  the 
priest.  During  an  affectionate  three  hours  the  trio  toasted  each  other 
alternately  in  large  glasses  of  this  double-voltage  concoction,  after 
suffering  two  or  three  rounds  of  which  I was  forced  to  allege  a sore 
throat.  The  moving  spirit  of  the  feast  was  the  priest,  whose  powerful 
frame  carried  his  liquor  well,  and  the  evening  raged  on  amid  a riot  of 
chatter  and  the  savage  thrumming  of  the  guitar,  little  more  than  the 
flushed  faces  visible  in  the  dense-clouded  atmosphere  of  cigarette 
smoke  within  the  tightly  closed  room.  The  cura  spoke  French  readily, 
having  been  in  earlier  years  an  inmate  of  the  French  monastery  of 
Riobamba,  and  affected  it  with  me  all  the  evening.  The  jefe  politico 
was  childishly  eager  to  hear  us  speak  that  strange  tongue ; the  town 
councilor  roared  with  anger  as  often  as  either  of  us  uttered  a word 
of  it,  charging  that  we  were  abusing  him  under  cover  of  “ that  cursed 
Castilian  of  the  gringos.”  The  cura  maliciously  added  fuel  to  his 
wrath,  unostentatiously  keeping  the  bottle  moving  meanwhile,  sending 
a boy  to  replenish  it  as  often  as  it  was  emptied.  The  enraged  coun- 
cilor ended  at  last  by  staggering  out  into  the  night  and  across  the  plaza, 
shouting  drunkenly  that  he  was  going  for  a gun  or  a machete.  The 
other  two  followed  him,  and  for  some  time  a maudlin  bellowing,  inter- 
mingled with  the  wheedling  of  a velvety  voice  of  rising  and  falling 
cadence,  awoke  the  echoes  of  the  night,  gradually  subsiding  until  at 
length  silence  fell.  The  priest  at  last  came  slowly  back  without 
a suggestion  of  intoxication,  which  he  seemed  to  lay  aside  as  he  might 
his  long  black  robe,  reached  under  the  table,  rolled  a cigarette,  and 
explained  apologetically  that,  as  his  recent  companions  were  the  chief 
civil  authorities,  he  must  keep  on  good  terms  with  them  “ whatever 
his  own  tastes  and  desires.”  Then  he  implored  me  to  spend  the  fol- 

201 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


lowing  day  in  Ona,  promising  that  we  should  visit  on  muleback  the 
many  historical  spots  in  the  vicinity,  and  launching  into  a learned  dis- 
sertation on  the  history  of  the  region.  Oha,  he  asserted,  was  the 
oldest  town  in  Southern  Ecuador,  and  the  treaty  of  peace  had  been 
signed  by  Sucre  in  this  very  house  after  the  battle  of  Tarqui.  In 
spite  of  the  impression  that  the  invitation  was  mere  surface  courtesy, 
I finally  promised  to  remain.  He  threw  his  arms  about  me  in  an 
affectionate  abrazo,  showering  upon  me  endearing  terms,  all  ending 
in  the  Spanish  diminutive  ito,  and  called  upon  the  housekeepers  to 
spread  a mattress  for  me  on  a mud  divan  in  the  study.  Then  the 
cura,  who  at  least  had  the  virtue  of  living  his  life  frankly,  retired  with 
the  two  comely  cholas  to  an  adjoining  room  in  which,  it  is  true, 
there  were  two  beds,  and  silence  settled  down  over  the  Andes. 

In  the  morning  I turned  over  for  another  nap.  An  hour  later  the 
priest  and  his  unofficial  family  marched  in  upon  me,  and  it  was  some 
time  before  I could  get  sufficient  privacy  and  liquid  mud  to  shave 
and  dress.  From  that  hour  until  night  I had  little  more  than  silent 
suffrance  from  the  cura  and  his  household,  and  heard  not  a reference 
to  those  “ many  points  of  historical  importance  ” he  had  painted  in 
such  enticing  terms  in  his  ardent  condition  of  the  night  before.  Tomas 
a Kempis  says : “ A sad  morning  often  follows  a merry  evening,”  or 

words  to  that  effect,  but  the  cura  of  Ona  had  evidently  overlooked  that 
particular  quotation.  An  almost  constant  stream  of  Indians  and  half- 
Indians  came  to  inquire  in  soft  cadenced  voices  for  “ tayta  curita,”  who 
sat  in  his  fly-swarming  den  smoking  countless  cigarettes  and  whining 
unlimited  endearments  and  blessings  on  all  comers,  but  resolutely 
squelching  all  applications  for  coin  of  the  realm  or  the  material  things 
of  this  world,  and  reaching  at  frequent  intervals  for  the  replenished 
quart  bottle.  About  eleven  the  two  of  us,  and  a “ carpenter  ” who 
had  been  pottering  about  the  house  all  the  morning  fitting  together 
two  boards  that  were  destined  never  to  fit,  sat  down  in  a comer  of 
the  wide  back  corredor  of  the  casa  cural  to  a substantial  dinner  at 
which  cat,  dog,  parrot,  and  monkey  helped  themselves  to  every  dish 
as  freely  as  we.  The  meal  was  adorned  with  a jar  of  pulque,  a drink 
which  the  cura  had  taught  his  cholas  to  make  after  reading  of  it  in 
an  account  of  Mexico.  The  rest  of  the  day  drowsed  slothfully  away 
amid  the  screaming  of  parrots,  the  barking  of  dogs,  the  shrieks  of  the 
monkey  rattling  his  chain  in  all  but  successful  attempts  to  rend  and 
tear  some  unwary  visitor,  and  a swarming  of  flies  that  sounded  like  a 
distant  waterfall, — a typical  parish-priest  life  of  rural  Ecuador, 

202 


THROUGH  SOUTHERN  ECUADOR 


punctuated  by  the  occasional  chanting  of  the  velvety,  singsong  voice  in 
the  mud  church  next  door,  as  my  host  hurried  through  a mass  for 
some  departed  soul.  Toward  sunset  the  household  was  augmented  by 
a third  plump  and  youthful  chola  who  had  been  home  on  a visit  to  her 
parental  mud  hut  among  the  hills.  It  seemed  strange  that  the  casa 
cural  was  so  ill-kept  and  slatternly  with  so  generous  a supply  of  house- 
keepers. 

At  the  summit  beyond  the  chaotic  chasm  into  which  the  world  falls 
away  below  Ona,  the  nature  of  the  country  changed.  From  an  endless 
vista  of  barren  and  often  soilless  rocks,  the  entire  landscape  was  trans- 
formed to  a heavily  wooded  region  of  hardy  undergrowth,  somewhat 
like  small,  bushy  oaks,  at  times  almost  approaching  a forest,  a shaggy 
world  rolling  away  as  far  as  the  eye  could  follow  in  every  direction. 
Here  and  there  was  a larger  bush  completely  covered  with  pink  blos- 
soms. Then  the  half-forested  mountaintop  took  gradually  to  rocking, 
like  a ship  approaching  a tempestuous  sea,  until  all  at  once  it  spilled 
itself,  like  the  cargo  of  an  overturned  freighter,  into  another  enormous 
hole  in  the  earth,  hazy  with  the  very  depths  of  it.  The  trail  pitched 
over  the  edge  with  the  rest,  like  a bit  of  flotsam  from  a wreck,  help- 
lessly at  the  mercy  of  the  waves.  Thousands  of  little  green  farms, 
chiefly  of  corn,  with  an  Indian  hut  set  in  a corner  of  each,  hung  at 
sharp  angles  about  the  enclosing  walls  of  the  valley.  I had  reached  the 
famous  Vale  of  Zaraguro,  the  Land  of  Corn, — zara  is  Ouichua  for 
maize  — to  climb  at  last  into  the  scattered  grass-grown  village  itself. 

Ensconced  in  the  great  hoyo  of  Jubones,  dividing  the  Azuay  from  the 
province  of  Loja,  Zaraguro  is  a little  world  of  its  own.  The  great 
majority  of  its  population  is  Indian,  but  a new  type  of  Indian,  of 
darker  skin  and  more  independent  manner  than  those  to  the  north,  still 
humble  to  the  gente  decente  when  facing  them  singly,  but  verging  on 
insolence  when  gathered  in  groups  with  chicha  at  hand.  Here  each 
owns  a little  patch  of  land  and  refuses  serfdom.  His  dress  is  somber, 
in  marked  contrast  to  the  gaudy  colors  of  his  quiteho  cousin.  In 
place  of  the  loose  white  panties,  he  clothes  his  legs  to  the  knee  with  a 
close-fitting  coffee-hued  woolen  garment,  and  covers  all  the  rest  of 
the  body  with  a poncho  of  the  same  color.  He  wears  an  immensely 
thick,  almost  white,  felt  hat  of  box-shaped  crown,  the  brim  drooping 
about  his  face,  and  his  long,  jet-black  hair,  instead  of  being  confined 
in'  a tape-wound  braid,  is  commonly  flying  about  his  head  and 
shoulders.  He  buys  nothing  from  the  outside  world  — except  masses 
and  indulgences  — shears  his  own  sheep,  the  wool  of  which,  usually 

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VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


black,  his  women  spin  and  weave  into  the  heavy  cloth  that  provides 
the  somber  garments  of  both  sexes.  Besides  supplying  its  own  wants, 
the  valley  of  Zaraguro  exports  by  way  of  Puerto  Bolivar  a bit  of 
coarse  cascarilla  bark,  basis  of  quinine,  at  about  five  cents  a pound. 

Zaraguro  assured  me  that  the  road  to  Loja  was  “ todo  piano  ” ; but 
level  has  strange  meanings  to  a people  accustomed  from  birth  to  the 
steepest  of  mountains.  One  of  the  best  engineered  highways  in  Ecua- 
dor looped  ever  higher  to  the  “ realms  of  eternal  silence  ” of  the 
Acayana-Guagra-uma  “ Knot,”  but  from  the  dense-forested  summit, 
where  I had  looked  forward  to  the  corresponding  pleasure  of  looping 
as  leisurely  down  the  opposite  flank,  an  atrocious  trail  stumbled  head- 
long downward  to  the  narrow  valley  of  a small  river.  From  the 
hamlet  of  San  Lucas  a long  day,  pouring  incessantly  with  rain,  fol- 
lowed the  stream,  the  trail  mounting  and  descending  rocky  headlands 
with  the  monotonous  regularity  of  a flat  carwheel.  Even  where  the 
landscape  opened  out  again  at  last,  the  plain  was  calf-deed  in  mud, 
and  it  was  only  by  dint  of  a constant  struggle  that  I dragged  myself, 
mud-caked  and  drenched,  on  the  second  evening  into  the  southernmost 
city  of  Ecuador. 

Loja,  380  miles  from  Quito  and  capital  of  the  province  least  in 
touch  with  the  central  government,  lies  exactly  on  the  fourth  parallel 
south,  in  the  delta  of  the  little  Zamora  and  Malacatos  rivers,  insignifi- 
cant bits  of  the  Amazon  system.  It  is  a low,  flat,  rather  featureless 
town,  surrounded  by  a fertile,  fruit-producing  soil,  and  though  7000 
feet  above  sea-level,  of  a humid,  semi-tropical  climate  that  is  kindly 
even  to  bananas.  Birds,  among  them  one  much  like  the  robin,  make 
the  place  reminiscent  of  American  summers.  There  are  only  rolling 
hills  near  at  hand,  though  not  far  off  is  that  “ labyrinth  of  mountains  ” 
of  Prescott’s  fancy,  blue-black  now  with  the  rainy  season,  high  up 
among  which,  according  to  local  assertion,  are  still  to  be  found  rem- 
nants of  the  great  military  highway  of  the  Incas.  Lojanos  seemed  a 
dull,  torpid  people,  laborious  of  mind,  and  the  town  has  little  of  the  pic- 
turesque, even  in  costume.  The  pure  Castilian  type  is  well  represented, 
but  Indian  blood,  chiefly  in  the  meztizo  form,  is  still  supreme,  though 
by  no  means  so  general  as  to  the  north,  and  the  population  includes  a 
few  negroes  and  more  sambos, — mixtures  of  Indian  and  African 
blood.  More  than  eighty  lawyers  hover  in  their  mud  dens,  ready  to 
pick  the  bones  of  the  8000  inhabitants,  largely  poverty-stricken  illiter- 
ates. There  is  some  weaving  of  “ panama  ” hats,  and  in  an  attempt 
to  stimulate  that  industry  “ profesores  ” of  the  art  have  been  imported 

204 


THROUGH  SOUTHERN  ECUADOR 


from  the  Azuay  to  teach  it,  particularly  in  the  orphan  asylums.  But 
it  remains  at  best  a dilettante  occupation,  foreign  to  the  soil.  The  chief 
industry  of  the  region  round  about  is  the  raising  of  mules  and 
cattle  that  are  shipped  chiefly  to  Peru.  Lima  subsists  largely  on  Loja 
meat,  which  is,  no  doubt,  the  reason  she  gets  virtually  none  herself, 
even  when  it  is  not  some  Catholic  day  sacred  to  starvation.  Zaruma 
and  Portovelo,  two  muleback  days  to  the  west,  boast  the  chief  Ameri- 
can mines  of  Ecuador,  but  gringos  are  seldom  seen  in  her  streets. 

In  one  matter  the  town  is  in  advance  of  more  populous  Cuenca, — it 
has  electric  lights.  As  long  ago  as  1897  Loja  brought  in,  by  way  of 
Peru,  the  first  dynamo  known  to  Ecuador,  a sign  of  “ progreso  ” of 
which  her  inhabitants  never  tire  of  boasting.  Scattered  in  sixteen- 
candle-power  bulbs  here  and  there  along  the  streets,  the  system  did 
not  reach  as  high  as  the  littered  lumber-room  in  which  I spent  the 
nights  on  a platform  on  legs,  where  the  customary  candle  winked 
weakly  through  the  humid  darkness.  I was  overjoyed,  however,  to 
come  upon  a placard  announcing  that  the  municipal  library  was  open  to 
the  public  even  at  night ! As  it  promised  to  open  first  at  one  of  the 
afternoon,  I was  not  surprised  to  find  it  still  locked  when  I arrived  at 
two.  I waited  a half  hour,  peering  greedily  through  the  bars  of  the 
reja  at  the  long  shelves  of  books  and  maps.  Then  I began  inquiries. 
The  adjoining  shopkeeper  expressed  unbounded  surprise  that  there 
were  persons  so  ignorant  as  not  to  know  “ the  government  is  so  poor  it 
cannot  pay  the  librarian  any  more,”  and  that  the  institution  had  been 
closed  for  months. 

Loja  was  once  the  center  of  the  commerce  in  cascarilla,  the  bark  of  a 
tree  not  unlike  the  cherry  in  appearance,  that  abounds  in  the  raAdnes 
of  the  mountains  to  the  eastward  of  the  city.  Nearly  three  centuries 
ago  a missionary  to  the  region  found  the  Indians  grinding  the  bitter 
bark  in  their  stone  mortars  and  swallowing  it  as  a specific  against  in- 
termittent fevers,  as  they  do  to  this  day.  When  the  wife  of  the  Conde 
de  Chinchon,  viceroy  of  Peru,  lay  ill  of  a fever  in  Lima,  the  corregidor 
of  Loja  sent  to  her  physician  a parcel  of  the  powdered  bark.  Upon 
her  return  to  Europe  the  condesa  carried  a quantity  of  the  magic 
powder  with  her,  whence  it  was  for  a long  time  known  as  chinchona. 
Meanwhile  Jusuit  missionaries  of  Brazil  had  sent  parcels  of  it  to 
Rome,  whence  it  was  distributed  among  the  brotherhood,  nothing 
loathe  to  add  to  their  reputation  for  miraculous  powers  and  to  the  in- 
come from  their  drug-stores,  and  the  name  “ Jesuits’  bark  ” became 
widespread.  The  tree,  however,  has  always  been  known  to  the  In- 

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VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


dians  by  the  Quichua  name  of  “ quina-quina,”  and  in  time  the  refined 
product  took  on  its  modern  name  of  quinine.  The  tree  in  its  original 
habitat  has  been  ruthlessly  treated,  being  often  felled  merely  to  avoid 
the  labor  of  barking  it  standing,  and  to-day,  with  large  chinchona 
plantations  in  India,  southern  Ecuador  has  but  a fraction  of  the  income 
it  might  have  from  one  of  its  most  valuable  indigenous  products.  It 
is  typical  of  Latin-American  conditions  that  a capsule  — or  more  com- 
monly an  oblca,  like  two  saucers  stuck  together  — of  quinine,  reim- 
ported from  Europe  and  paying  heavy  custom  duties,  costs  four  times 
as  much  in  the  boticas  of  Loja  as  in  the  United  States. 

In  one  of  the  quaint  two-story  houses  with  an  air  of  decayed  gen- 
tility, facing  the  main  plaza  and  grazing  ground  of  Loja,  lives  Augustin 
Carrion,  inventor  of  the  “ celifono,”  by  means  of  which  a piano  can 
be  played  by  electricity  and  given  the  soft,  long-drawn  notes  of  an 
organ.  He  is  the  chief  “ sight  ” of  the  region,  yet  held  in  a certain 
ill-concealed  disdain  by  the  mass  of  his  fellow-townsmen,  even  while 
they  are  basking  in  the  sunshine  of  his  fame ; a striking  example  of 
those  rare  mortals  who  struggle  to  raise  themselves  above  the  low 
level  of  their  deadening  environment  in  these  buried  cities  far  from 
the  moving  modern  world. 

I found  him  in  his  rambling  parlor,  of  undusted  efforts  at  grandeur, 
its  walls  decorated  with  large  maps  of  Paris  and  New  York,  both  of 
which  he  had  once  visited  in  an  effort  to  patent  and  place  his  invention, 
interspersed  with  the  customary  inartistic  family  portraits  draped  with 
aged  mourning  crepe.  A member  of  one  of  Loja’s  chief  families,  of 
pure  Spanish  blood,  speaking  a cultured  Castilian  with  the  diction  of 
a man  of  books,  he  was  in  appearance  a ludicrous  mixture  of  the 
typical  inventor  of  the  comic  supplements  and  of  the  Latin-American 
stickler  for  formal  dress.  Scraggly  gray  whiskers  pursued  themselves 
about  his  unimpressive  face ; a haircut  months  overdue  emphasized  his 
narrow  shoulders  and  flat  chest.  His  hands,  thin  almost  to  trans- 
parency, suggested  something  weak  and  harmless  in  need  of  protection. 
His  once  stiff  white  shirt  was  innocent  of  buttons,  and  with  his  ener- 
getic, or,  more  exactly,  nervous  movements,  frequently  opened  to 
disclose  a flacid  skin  and  a Catholic  charm  hanging  low  about  his  neck. 
A collar,  buttoned  only  at  one  end,  was  adorned  with  a cravat  that  was 
not  a cravat,  but  only  a strip  of  black  ribbon  that  floated  here  and  there 
about  his  throat.  His  frock-coat,  sine  qua  non  of  Latin-American 
respectability,  was  gray  with  dust,  trousers  unacquainted  with  the 
pressing-board  were  spotted  with  the  mementoes  of  laboratory  ac- 

206 


THROUGH  SOUTHERN  ECUADOR 


cidents,  and  the  slender  aristocratic  shoes,  possessing  in  common  three 
buttons,  had  been  worn  completely  heelless.  Here,  in  the  bosom  of 
his  disdainful  family,  he  wore  a greasy  old  cap ; later  in  the  day  I met 
him  promenading  under  the  portales  of  the  plaza  in  the  same  costume, 
but  for  the  added  glory  of  a “ stove-pipe  ” hat  of  at  least  twenty  years 
of  harried  existence. 

His  taller,  or  workshop,  overlooking  the  main  square,  was  a chaos 
of  odds  and  ends  gathered  by  a man  who  had  given  his  life  chiefly  to 
the  study  of  physics,  and  who  was  alternately  tinkering  at  a score  of  in- 
ventions. In  the  absence  of  a real  source  of  supply  his  apparatus  was 
almost  entirely  home-made,  or,  as  he  himself  put  it,  “ Loja-made,”  a 
collection  fashioned  from  cigar  boxes,  string,  tin  cans,  and  whatever 
makeshifts  fell  in  his  way,  resembling  nothing  so  much  as  the  play- 
things of  some  isolated  but  inventive  farmer’s  boy.  A shoemaker’s 
needle,  on  the  plan  of  a sewing-machine  shuttle,  that  was  designed  to 
revolutionize  the  making  of  footwear,  had  been  constructed  from  the 
shell  of  a rifle  cartridge.  Of  as  plebeian  materials  he  had  built  a little 
transparent  box  to  place  above  the  needle  of  a phonograph,  to  do  away 
with  the  metallic  sound  of  that  instrument  — but  in  Latin-American 
fashion  his  phonograph  was  out  of  order  and  did  not  “ function.” 
Another  crude  apparatus  he  pointed  out  as  a proof  that  “ a sphere  can 
revolve  on  two  axes  at  once,” — a ball  of  yarn  representing  the  earth 
was  twirled  by  a tiny  dynamo,  and  at  the  same  time  given  a rotary  mo- 
tion by  a string  belt  — and  so  on  through  all  the  realms  of  physics, 
which  he  taught  here  in  his  taller  several  times  a week  to  the  boys  of 
the  local  colegio.  The  Loja-made  original  of  his  most  important  in- 
vention was  out  of  order,  and  I was  not  favored  with  a test  of  the 
“ celifono  ” on  which  he  had  tinkered  intermittently  more  than  thirty 
years. 

His  inventiveness  did  not  confine  itself  to  merely  physical  matters. 
Before  I left,  he  pressed  upon  me  a pamphlet  of  which  he  was  the 
author.  It  was  entitled  “ The  Virgin  Maria  in  America  before  its 
Discovery  by  Columbus,”  wherein  the  writer  “ proved  beyond  ques- 
tion,” to  use  his  own  words,  “ that  the  Blessed  Virgin  was  not  an 
unknown  personage  in  America  when  it  was  discovered  by  the  Span- 
iards.” Beginning  a visionary  journey  in  Canada,  he  descended  step 
by  step  through  all  the  western  hemisphere,  “ proving  ” by  shaky 
tradition,  by  the  doctored  yarns  of  early  missionaries,  and  by  personal 
lucubrations  that  “ all  the  Indian  tribes  had  the  tradition  of  Adam  and 
Eve,  of  the  serpent  and  the  apple,  of  ‘ original  sin,’  and  of  a god  born 

207 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


of  a virgin.”  The  fact  that  the  city  of  Loja  had  published  this  mas- 
terpiece fully  describes  its  mentality. 

I had  known  him  three  or  four  days  before  the  inventor  took  me 
into  his  confidence  and  whispered  that  the  invention  of  the  “ celifono  ” 
had  been  merely  a means  to  an  end;  that  he  had  taken  it  to  New  York  • 
and  Europe  in  the  hope  of  raising  funds  to  pursue  his  “ really  im- 
portant invention,”  which  he  had  thought  on  for  forty  years  and  al- 
ready perfected  “ in  his  mind,”  though  he  had  not  yet  begun  its  con- 
struction. This  was  a “ flying  machine  that  is  neither  balloon  nor 
aeroplane,  perfectly  safe  and  commercially  practicable.”  As  nearly 
as  my  unmechanical  faculties  grasped  the  situation  from  his  elaborate 
explanation,  it  was  a close  replica  of  that  of  “ Darius  Green,”  whose 
fame  has  never  reached  this  corner  of  the  Andes.  Fortunately  there 
is  no  building  in  Loja  high  enough  to  bring  the  inventor  to  serious 
grief,  should  he  ever  succeed  in  collecting  the  materials  essential  to  the 
actual  construction  of  this  perfected  child  of  his  imagination.  But 
his  hope  was  still  youthful,  and  he  besought  my  advice  as  to  how  a 
poor  inventor  could  get  his  masterpiece  before  the  world  without 
being  despoiled  of  the  fruits  of  his  labors,  as  in  the  case  of  the 
“ celifono,”  by  the  “ practical  business  men  ” of  that  great  universe 
beyond  his  mountain-bounded  horizon.  I regretted  my  ignorance  of 
any  panacea  for  that  condition. 

Carrion  is  but  a type  of  those  “ closet  ” geniuses  who  live,  toil,  and 
fade  away  unknown  in  the  dim  recesses  of  the  Andes,  men  in  some 
cases  who  might  have  ranked  high  among  modern  inventors,  writers,  or 
artists,  had  their  lot  been  cast  in  happier  climes  than  in  this  leaden 
environment  of  impracticability,  burdened  by  enervating  superstitions, 
denied  the  simplest  materials  for  their  purposes  in  a land  where  even 
twine  and  wrapping-paper  are  commonly  unobtainable,  and  so  lacking 
in  that  grasping  self-assertiveness  so  necessary  to  front  modern  so- 
ciety successfully  that  even  the  scant  fruits  of  their  labors  go  to  swell 
the  already  swollen  pockets  of  more  “ practical  ” men  of  the  world, 
while  they  dream  on  like  this  gray-haired  boy  pottering  among  his 
home-made  toys. 


208 


The  church,  and  the  dwelling  of  my  host,  the  priest  of  Ona 


Loja,  southernmost  city  of  Ecuador,  backed  by  her  endless  labyrinth  of  mountains 


CHAPTER  IX 


THE  WILDS  OF  NORTHERN  PERU 

I HAD  been  a full  half-year  in  Ecuador  when  I turned  my  attention 
to  the  problem  of  getting  out  of  it.  That  disintegration,  that 
tendency  for  neighboring  countries  to  hold  no  comunication  be- 
tween each  other,  at  which  the  American  cannot  but  marvel  in  South 
America,  was  here  in  full  evidence.  Ecuador  seemed  as  completely  cut 
off  from  the  country  just  over  her  southern  boundary  as  from  Europe. 
The  cura  of  Ona  had  assured  me  that  the  one  way  to  reach  Peru  from 
Loja  would  be  to  walk  to  Puerto  Bolivar  on  the  coast,  take  a costero  to 
Guayaquil,  then  a “ big  steamer  ” to  Paita  or  Pacasmayo ! Only  he 
who  knows  South  American  geography  well  can  appreciate  the  uncon- 
scious humor  of  such  advice.  Even  the  rare  lojanos  who  admitted 
it  might  be  possible  to  go  to  Peru  “ by  land  ” asserted  that  I must 
walk  to  Piura,  which  would  have  been  to  cross  a burning  tropical 
desert  far  out  of  my  way,  to  that  well-traveled  coast  I was  purposely 
avoiding.  The  government  map  of  the  province  of  Loja  was  as  faulty 
and  scanty  of  information  as  the  American  one  I carried.  It  showed 
a road  leading  south  from  the  provincial  capital  into  that  blue-black 
“ labyrinth  of  mountains,”  through  the  villages  of  Vilcabamba  and 
Valladolid;  but  all  the  town  was  agreed  that  no  one  could  travel  in 
these  modern  days  along  the  remnants  of  the  great  military  highway 
of  the  Incas,  crawling  along  the  crest  of  the  Cordillera  Oriental 
through  regions  for  days  utterly  uninhabited ; and  well  I knew  that 
Prescott’s  “ hanging  withe  bridges  over  awful  chasms”  were  sure  to 
be  out  of  repair  in  these  effeminate  Latin-American  times,  even  where 
they  ever  existed.  / 

At  length  a few  bold  lojanos  admitted  that  I might  be  able  to  push 
on  to  the  frontier  by  way  of  Gonzanama,  though  they  persisted  in  call- 
ing it  a “ terrible  undertaking,”  even  for  a man  who  claimed  to  have 
walked  from  Quito.  That  route  led  far  west  of  a line  drawn  through 
Huancabamba  to  Cajamarca,  and  there  was  nothing  to  show  that  it 
would  connect  with  any  trail  beyond  the  frontier.  The  best  I could 
do  was  to  hope  I might  be  able  to  struggle  across  to  Ayavaca,  in 
Peru,  where  I could  perhaps  get  Peruvian  information.  Then  there 

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VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


came  a complete  division  of  opinion  as  to  the  road  to  Gonzanama,  and 
Loja  split  into  two  irreconcilable  factions,  the  one  contending  that  I 
should  take  the  road  due  south  from  the  west  side  of  the  plaza,  the 
other  insisting  on  that  due  west  from  the  south  side.  In  the  end  they 
all  washed  their  hands  of  the  matter.  The  rainy  season  was  nearing 
its  height;  sure  death  lurked  along  the  bandit-infested  frontier;  none 
but  amphibious  animals  and  crack-brained  gringos  would  stir  forth 
from  the  cozy  little  city. 

On  the  morning  of  April  twentieth  I finally  took  the  south  road. 
It  climbed  leisurely  over  the  low  interandean  nudo  shutting  in  Loja’s 
concave  valley  and,  falling  in  with  a hurried  mountain  stream,  raced 
with  it  all  day,  crossing  its  branches  sometimes  by  one-log  bridges, 
more  often  by  knee-deep  fords.  The  few  arrieros  I met  carried  rusty 
old  flint-locks,  suggesting  the  dangers  of  the  frontier;  the  huts  along 
the  way  grew  more  and  more  rare,  and  degenerated  from  thick  adobe 
walls  to  upright  reeds  carelessly  stopped  with  mud.  Beyond  Malaca- 
tos,  among  its  banana  groves,  where  I spent  the  night  on  a plank 
bench  in  the  casa  cural  of  a young  French  priest  who  had  already  lost 
the  habit  of  speaking  anything  but  Spanish,  the  trail  climbed  relent- 
lessly up  through  a scrub-wooded  region  as  uninhabited  as  an  un- 
discovered sphere.  The  afternoon  was  middle-aged  before  the  world 
opened  out  again  and  gave  a brief  glimpse  through  the  trees  of  Gon- 
zanama, set  out  in  three  rows  on  a tiny  plain  untold  depths  below. 
Raging  rains  had  torn  and  gullied  the  further  slope  until  the  five 
miles  downward  was  like  descending  the  ruins  of  a giant’s  stairway. 

Gonzanama  was  in  fiesta.  Hundreds  of  near-Indians  and  mestizos, 
with  very  little  color  in  their  garments,  squatted  about  the  church  and 
casa  cural.  They  were  a people  as  simple  and  unsophisticated  as 
children.  It  was  Viernes  Santo  (Good  Friday),  and  all  the  town 
gathered  around  to  see  me  eat  the  meat  a pious  old  woman  served  me 
with  a shrug  of  her  shoulders  when  I scorned  her  warning  not  to 
“ anger  the  saints,”  and  dispersed  prophesying  an  early  calamity  to  me 
on  the  road  ahead  when  I arose  apparently  uninjured.  The  son  of 
the  teniente  politico  in  whose  house  I was  the  honored  guest,  in  so 
far  as  their  means  made  honoring  possible,  proved  to  be  an  old  ac- 
quaintance, a second-year  medical  student  of  Quito,  home  on  his  va- 
cation. He  was  already  the  chief  practicing  physician  of  the  region. 
On  his  journey  from  the  capital  he  had  performed  a score  of  opera- 
tions, among  them  one  with  a butcher-knife  for  abscess  of  the  liver. 
The  room  I occupied,  which  was  also  his  place  of  consultation,  the 

210 


THE  WILDS  OF  NORTHERN  PERU 


family  parlor,  the  municipal  offices,  and  his  own  sleeping  quarters, 
was  invaded  by  a constant  stream  of  uncomplaining  infirmities.  Out- 
side, the  entire  population  marched  in  procession  until  midnight,  at- 
tended a two-hour  service  in  the  adobe  church,  and  wandered  the 
three  streets  with  throbbing  tomtoms  and  the  gaiety  imbibed  from  bot- 
tles until  the  eastern  horizon  paled  to  gray.  The  practicing  medical 
student  did  not  take  to  his  bed  until  four,  and  an  hour  later  he  arose 
to  set  me  on  my  way,  forcing  upon  me,  with  regal  eloquence,  a can  of 
salmon  from  “ Europe,  your  own  land,”  to  be  opened  only  on  Easter 
Sunday. 

Only  those  rare  mortals  who  have  jaunted  cross-country  in  the 
Andes  can  have  any  conception  of  the  stone-quarry  heights  I scaled, 
the  dense- jungled,  bottomless  quebradas  through  which  I tore  my  way, 
the  brush-tangled  streams  I forded,  and  the  paths  that  faded  out  under 
my  feet  during  that  day.  One  of  these  last  had  dragged  me  remorse- 
lessly over  every  manner  of  ruggedness  when,  well  on  in  the  afternoon, 
it  disappeared  at  the  door  of  a mud-plastered  hut.  The  trails  of  the 
Andes  do  not  run  merely  from  town  to  town,  but  from  hovel  to 
hovel,  like  foraging  soldiers,  giving  the  traveler  a zigzag  course  that 
at  least  trebles  the  distance.  I was  prowling  about  this  apparently 
unoccupied  human  kennel,  striving  to  pick  up  the  scent  again,  when 
I was  set  upon  by  three  unusually  large,  aggressive  curs.  I did  my 
best  to  drive  them  off  with  sticks  and  stones,  but  when  there  remained 
no  other  alternative  I drew  my  weapon  and  sent  the  largest  to  his 
happy  hunting-grounds.  Instantly  a crashing  of  the  bushes  sounded 
high  up  in  a jungled  patch  above,  and  the  angry  voice  of  an  unseen 
countryman  screamed  in  the  dialect  of  the  region:  “ Scoundrel,  you  ’ll 

pay  me  for  my  dog,  caramba!  ” Crime  is  frequently  immune  so  near 
an  international  boundary,  and  I rounded  the  hillside  cautiously,  my 
cocked  revolver  in  hand ; but  the  bellowing  of  the  invisible  native  was 
soon  swallowed  up  behind  me,  and  only  the  oppressive  silence  of  the 
mountain  solitude  surrounded  me  once  more. 

It  was  evident  that  I should  not  reach  the  frontier,  perhaps  not  even 
shelter,  before  dark,  when,  at  some  distance  off,  in  a setting  of  primeval 
forest  solitude  I was  astonished  to  catch  sight  of  a large  hacienda 
house,  a gaunt,  rambling  building  that  suggested  some  starving  creature 
lost  in  the  wilderness.  Almost  as  I reached  it  a thunder-storm  broke 
with  a crash,  and  set  a hundred  brooks  tearing  their  way  down  the  swift 
mountainside  on  which  the  building  clung.  The  house  was  locked  and 
unoccupied.  T wo  Indian  boys  of  eight  and  twelve  were  huddled 

21 1 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


under  the  projecting  eaves  of  a half-ruined  outbuilding  across  the  cob- 
bled yard.  For  a full  hour  they  answered  my  every  question  with 
“ El  patron  no  ’sta,”  uttered  in  the  dull,  monotonous  voice  of  some 
mechanical  instrument.  I cajoled  them  at  last  to  start  a fagot-fire  on 
the  earth  floor  of  the  outbuilding,  and  to  heat  a pot  of  water  into  which 
I dropped  three  eggs  they  were  prevailed  upon  to  produce  from  a hid- 
ing-place in  the  thatch,  and  beat  the  mess  up  with  a stick  into  a “ caldo 
de  huevos.”  The  smaller  boy  finally  accepted  a bribe  to  crawl  out 
through  a hole  in  the  wall  into  the  drenching  downpour  and  snatch 
a half-dozen  cholos,  ears  of  green  corn,  which  I roasted,  or,  more 
exactly,  burned  here  and  there  over  the  scanty  fire. 

Prowling  about  the  hacienda  house  when  the  storm  slackened,  I 
found  in  one  end  a room  that  was  “ locked  ” with  a piece  of  string. 
According  to  the  now  less  speechless  boys,  it  was  the  hacienda 
“ school,”  in  which  at  certain  seasons  an  employee  of  the  “ patron  ” 
taught  the  male  children  of  those  peons  who  paid  $2  a year  tuition. 
Like  an  old  lumber-room  or  garret  in  appearance,  the  place  was  fur- 
nished with  an  ancient  desk  and  a massive  chair,  as  crude  as  if  they 
had  been  carved  out  of  tree-trunks  with  dull  machetes,  and  a dozen 
faded  copy-books  and  medieval  inkwells  hung  about  the  walls.  The 
school-master  evidently  made  his  home  here  during  the  school  season, 
for  in  the  far  end  of  the  room  stood  a log-hewn  bedstead  with  a rough 
board  flooring.  Dusk  was  thickening  into  wet  night  when  the  Indian 
boys  crept  up  to  where  I sat  on  the  broad  veranda  overlooking  a far- 
reaching,  yet  indistinct  vista  of  wooded  mountains  and  valleys,  to  as- 
sure me  I should  be  killed  and  robbed  during  the  night. 

“ We  are  all  so  poor  here  that  when  a rich  man  like  your  Grace 
passes  everyone  tries  to  rob  him,”  asserted  the  older,  with  unusual 
eloquence  for  his  race.  “ Here  all  the  people  are  robbers  Hace  pocos 
dias  — it  is  only  a few  days  since  a traveler  was  killed  down  in  the 
valley  there.  Last  month  — ” 

I glanced  over  my  travel-worn  and  bespattered  form  in  vain  for  the 
evidences  of  wealth  so  patent  to  other  eyes,  yet  I could  not  but  recall 
the  carcass  of  a dog  a few  miles  back,  and  the  golden  weight  of  the 
band  of  my  trousers  reminded  me  that  several  evil-eyed  fellows 
had  halted  awhile  under  the  hacienda  eaves  during  the  height  of  the 
storm  and  slipped  away  somewhere  into  the  night.  Moreover,  the 
prophesied  destruction  of  all  Ecuador  by  earthquake  was  at  hand,  for 
the  morrow  would  be  — if  it  ever  came  — Easter  Sunday.  Plainly,  all 
the  signs  pointed  to  an  exciting  night. 

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THE  WILDS  OF  NORTHERN  PERU 


My  small  faith  in  prophecy  did  not,  however,  hinder  me  from  mak- 
ing sure  that  my  revolver  was  well-oiled  and  hung  on  a bed-post.  The 
window  of  the  school-room,  high  above  the  ground,  but  only  a few 
feet  from  the  roof  of  an  old  ruin,  was  heavily  barred  — with  bars 
of  wood ! The  massive  double-leaf  plank  doors  had  no  lock.  The 
log-like  pupils’  bench,  topped  by  the  old  colonial  teacher’s  chair,  piled 
against  it,  however,  promised  racket  enough  to  wake  me  in  case  of 
attempted  intrusion.  I found  several  old  sacks  to  serve  as  “ mat- 
tress ” and,  stripping  off  my  sweat-heavy  day  garb,  slipped  into  the 
woolen  union-suit  and  socks  that  made  up  my  sleeping  costume. 
However  much  I might  reduce  my  load  in  my  indifference  to  outward 
appearance,  I would  not  have  been  without  this  complete  change  for 
the  night  if  I had  had  to  make  two  trips  to  fetch  them.  I had  no 
matches,  and  the  boys  had  been  unable  to  produce  a candle.  The  rain 
had  died  down  and  everywhere  utter  stillness  reigned.  I rolled  up  in 
my  poncho  and  fell  asleep. 

A suspicious  noise  woke  me  in  what  was  probably  a few  minutes. 
Scores  of  mice  were  scampering  over  the  uneven  floor,  squeaking 
hilariously.  By  the  time  I had  grown  accustomed  to  the  sound,  I had 
dozed  off  again.  From  a chaotic  dream  of  crowded  and  varied  in- 
cidents I came  gradually  to  the  consciousness  of  a rattling  at  the 
wooden  window-bars.  I sprang  across  the  floor  and  peered  out  into 
the  unfathomable  mountain  night ; but  I have  never  been  certain 
w'hether  the  sound  I heard  was  the  hurrying  of  bare  feet  in  soft  mud 
and  the  tail  of  a whisper,  or  the  creature  of  a startled  imagination. 
With  thirty  half-perpendicular  miles  in  my  legs  I was  in  no  mood  to  sit 
up  waiting  for  trouble,  and  making  sure  once  more  that  my  revolver 
was  within  easy  reach,  I set  the  bed-floor  creaking  again.  My  next 
consciousness  was  of  a dawn  bright  with  the  promise  of  an  unclouded 
day  peering  in  upon  me  through  the  window-bars,  and  of  the  Indian 
boys  whispering  through  the  barricaded  door  to  know  whether  I was 
still  alive  and  ready  for  the  two  raw  eggs  they  had  collected. 

An  erratic  mountain  path  that  it  was  not  easy  to  distinguish  from 
the  beds  of  mountain  brooks,  and  generally  deep  in  mud,  clambered 
without  apparent  direction  into  dripping-wet  wooden  mountain  ranges, 
sometimes  plunging  headlong  down  through  bottomless  valleys,  some- 
times flanking  them  in  enormous  horseshoe  curves.  How  I pushed  on 
all  the  morning  without  getting  lost  I do  not  know,  for  certainly  there 
were  a score  of  times  when  there  was  no  plausible  excuse  for  picking 
the  right  one  of  a half-dozen  paths.  I sighted  several  miserable  huts, 

213 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


and  once  a village,  but  these  were  never  near  the  trail ; and  when  I 
decided  to  apply  for  food  at  the  next  one,  another  of  those  sudden 
changes  of  climate  left  the  dripping  forested  mountains  behind  me,  and 
underfoot  was  a desert-dry  world  which  even  the  hardy  dwellers  of 
two  decrepit  knock-kneed  huts  had  long  since  abandoned.  In  southern 
Ecuador  and  northern  Peru  the  Andes  break  up  and  all  but  disinte- 
grate. There  are  still  plenty  of  mountains,  but,  true  to  their  Latin- 
American  environment,  they  lack  team-work,  and  do  not  stick  to- 
gether sufficiently  to  give  the  traveler  footing  upon  them.  Directly 
before  me  Ecuador  fell  unfathomably  away  to  the  Macara,  like  an 
auburn  hair  across  a painted  landscape,  while  beyond,  to  appearances 
unattainable,  Peru  lay  piled  pellmell  into  the  southern  sky.  It  was 
as  if  the  Carpenter  of  the  Universe  had  said:  “ Let  here  be  the  divid- 
ing line  between  two  distrusting  nations,”  and  had  smote  the  earth  with 
His  mightiest  tool.  Over  all  the  scene  was  a sun-baked,  utterly  unin- 
habited silence,  as  of  some  valley  of  desolation  from  which  all  life  had 
forever  fled. 

The  trail  down  which  I jolted  had  exploded  into  a score  of  barely 
visible  paths  that  spread  in  every  direction  over  the  drear,  furnace-hot 
hills.  It  seemed  as  if,  once  near  the  frontier,  every  traveler  either 
dashed  blindly  forward  to  get  quickly  across  it  unseen,  or  lost  his 
courage  and  fled  back  into  the  interior.  I set  a due  course  for  the 
thread-like  river  almost  directly  below.  At  high  noon,  my  every  joint 
jarred  loose,  I stood  at  last  on  the  extrenle  edge  of  Ecuador,  the  red- 
dish-brown waters  of  the  Macara  lapping  at  my  blistered  feet,  and  on 
every  hand  a blazing,  utterly  unpeopled  desert,  with  nowhere  the 
vestige  of  track  or  trail. 

The  river,  nearly  a quarter-mile  wide,  swollen  by  the  rains  above, 
raged  swiftly  by,  a barrier  of  unknown  possibilities.  Its  surface, 
covered  everywhere  with  ripples,  suggested  that  it  was  less  deep  than 
broad.  I piled  my  baggage  on  the  shore  and,  stripping  to  the  waist, 
waded  in.  The  powerful  current  all  but  swept  me  off  my  feet  and  the 
water  quickly  reached  my  upper  garments.  I returned  to  strip  en- 
tirely, strapped  my  revolver  about  my  chest  and,  picking  a stout  stick 
from  the  undergrowth,  fought  my  way  inch  by  inch  to  the  opposite 
shore.  But  I had  to  go  back  to  Ecuador  for  my  possessions.  It  re- 
quired five  crossings,  trusting  only  a few  of  them  at  a time  to  the 
treacherous  current,  and  more  than  an  hour  of  unremitting  vigilance, 
before  I had  landed  my  bedraggled  belongings  at  last  on  the  shores 
of  Peru,  more  forlorn  than  at  the  landing  of  Pizarro  and  his  fellow- 

214 


THE  WILDS  OF  NORTHERN  PERU 


adventurers.  By  careful  calculation,  checked  by  native  record,  I 
was  466  miles  south  of  Quito  and  630  from  the  Colombian  border. 

Under  some  barbed  bushes  I picked  a sand-burr  spot  as  nearly 
shaded  as  could  be  found  along  the  desert  bank,  and,  having  shaved, 
that  I might  enter  the  new  republic  in  disguise,  dipped  up  a can  of 
coffee-colored  Macara  and  fell  upon  the  lead-heavy  rapadura  the  In- 
dian boys  had  sold  me,  and  the  can  of  salmon  which  I had  preserved 
for  Easter  Sunday  only  by  the  exercise  of  sternest  will-power.  It 
was  three  fourths  full  of  a pale,  watery,  soup-like  liquid  in  which 
floated  dejectedly  a few  small  lumps  of  what  had  once  long  ago  been 
carp  or  dog-fish.  Luckily  there  was  a difference  in  the  size  of  the 
cans,  so  that  I could  generally  tell  whether  I was  drinking  salmon  or 
the  Macara.  Then,  when  I had  written  up  my  notes,  I proceeded  to 
turn  the  meal  into  a banquet  in  comparison,  by  reading  that  chapter  of 
Prescott  recounting  what  Pizarro  and  his  fellow-tramps  did  not  find 
to  eat  on  their  first  landing.  Being  far  from  mortal  ken  in  an  un- 
charted crack  of  the  earth,  it  may  be  fancied  I should  have  been  eager 
to  hurry  on.  Somehow,  now  I had  reached  Peru,  there  came  over  me 
a languorous  indifference  to  further  advance.  The  sun  was  low  be- 
fore I rose  and  turned  my  attention  to  the  task  of  discovering  my 
whereabouts. 

I found  myself  gazing  along  a dreary,  sheer  mountain-wall,  grown 
only  with  sparse,  bristling  cactus  shrubs  that  refused  a hand-hold,  seek- 
ing a place  to  insert  my  toes  and  start  southward.  Leisurely,  but  de- 
cidedly, I grasped  the  first  possibility,  and  for  an  hour  or  more  might 
have  been  seen  — had  there  been  eyes  to  see  — playing  goat  along  the 
face  of  calcined  hills  that  fell  so  abruptly  into  the  racing  Macara  that 
they  came  a score  of  times  uncomfortably  near  taking  me  with  them. 
During  that  hour  I advanced  fully  five  hundred  yards  — in  a direction 
I did  not  care  to  go  — gathering  cactus  thorns  at  every  step,  and  ended 
down  at  the  edge  of  the  river  again,  exactly  as  far  into  Peru  as  when  I 
had  begun  the  struggle  upward  an  hour  before.  Here  were  a few 
yards  of  level  shore,  and  when  I had  drunk  the  stream  perceptibly 
lower,  I made  my  way  along  until  I came  upon  a labyrinth  of  cow- 
paths.  That  one  which  most  nearly  agreed  with  my  compass  turned 
due  east  and  crawled  off  through  the  bushes,  as  if  fearful  of  being  fol- 
lowed, and  left  me  standing  pathless  in  a maze  of  barren,  cactus-grown 
hills.  Tearing  my  way  over  them  by  dead  reckoning,  now  struggling 
to  a thorn-barricaded  summit  from  which  stretched  vistas  of  more 
thorny- jungled  hills,  now  crashing  with  lacerated  skin  down  into  an- 

215 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


other  desert  valley,  where  a few  wild  jack-asses  browsed  on  the  scanty 
leaves  of  bristling  bushes,  I surmounted  again  and  again  the  same 
identical  scene  of  dreary  nothingness  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see 
beyond. 

The  region  was  waterless.  Evidently  I was  doomed  to  suffer  that 
hell  of  the  desert  traveler,  an  all-night  thirst;  for  dusk  was  already 
thickening.  The  very  leaves  of  the  invariably  thorny  bushes  were 
shrivelled  and  brown.  Even  the  air  seemed  wholly  devoid  of  moisture. 
Then  suddenly,  as  I tore  my  way  to  another  tangled  summit,  there 
sounded  faintly,  far  off  to  the  right,  the  sweetest  music  known  to  the 
tropical  wanderer, — the  babble  of  running  water.  I plunged  down 
through  the  militant  vegetation  to  where  a clear  little  river  was  hurry- 
ing down  along  a bed  several  times  too  large  for  it  to  join  the  parent 
Macara.  Enormous  boulders  and  tumbled  rocks  bordered  the  stream. 
In  the  tail  of  the  day  I stumbled  along  up  it,  jealous  of  being  separated 
from  it  as  from  a beloved  being;  and  when  night  called  a halt  I stacked 
my  belongings  and  spread  my  poncho  on  the  stony  bank  with  its  prattle 
in  my  ears,  that  it  should  not  escape  unheard  during  the  night.  The 
brigands  reputed  to  infest  the  frontier  had  faded  away  into  the  nebu- 
lous realms  of  fiction.  I would  almost  have  invited  robbery  for  an 
opportunity  to  inquire  my  whereabouts.  But  the  stream  muffled  my 
movements  and  the  munching  of  the  lump  of  crude  sugar,  and  when 
I had  listened  awhile  to  the  singing  of  the  tropical  night,  and  watched 
the  fireflies  coming  with  their  lanterns  to  look  me  over,  I fell  asleep, 
uncovered  and  but  slightly  dressed,  so  warm  was  this  sunken  chasm  of 
the  Andes. 

The  fate  of  serving  as  banquet-board  to  platoons  of  tropical  insects 
robbed  me  of  the  sound  sleep  the  lullaby  of  the  stream  should  have 
afforded.  Dawn  found  me  emerging  from  a dip,  and  when  I had  dis- 
ciplined a stomach  that  seemed  sure  to  have  its  plaints  unheeded  for 
the  rest  of  the  day  at  least  by  eating  bit  by  bit  the  remaining  lump  of 
rapadura,  I took  up  the  serious  problem  of  how  to  get  somewhere  else. 
The  ghost  of  a path  crossed  the  stream  not  far  above,  but  soon 
played  the  stale  joke  of  fading  to  a goat  trail,  then  into  thin  air,  and 
left  me  to  tear  my  way  back  to  the  stream.  This,  I noted,  came  down 
more  or  less  from  the  south,  and  I set  out  along  it,  determined  to  push 
as  far  up  country  as  possible.  For  several  hours  I had  explored  my 
way  more  or  less  southward,  crossing  the  wandering  stream  every  few 
yards  by  goat-like  jumps  from  rock  to  rock,  when  I was  suddenly 
startled  by  the  sight  of  human  beings.  A sun-scorched  Indian  woman 

216 


THE  WILDS  OF  NORTHERN  PERU 


in  some  remnants  of  garments,  a child  astride  her  back,  a boy  at  her 
heels,  appeared  from  nowhere  in  the  boulder-strewn  river-bed.  With 
a laconic  greeting,  she  led  the  way  up-stream.  Once  she  took  to  the 
jungled  plain  beside  it,  and  sent  the  boy  up  a tree  to  knock  down  some 
half-green  oranges.  Down  in  the  river-bed  again  the  god  of  the  Incas 
poured  down  his  perpendicular  rays  like  molten  lead.  At  length 
the  woman  mumbled  a few  words  in  a monotone,  pointed  out  a faint 
path  up  the  face  of  the  eastern  sand  cliff,  in  which  hundreds  of  scream- 
ing parrakeets  had  their  nests,  grasped  the  coin  I held  out  to  her,  and 
glided  noiselessly  away  into  the  wilderness.  The  path  disappeared 
even  sooner  than  I had  expected.  I clambered  up  several  more  per- 
pendicular miles,  only  to  descend  and  lose  myself  in  a jungle-tangled 
quebrada.  Inch  by  inch  I tore  my  way  through  the  densest  wilder- 
ness of  briars  and  brambles,  struggling  to  release  the  bundle  on  my 
shoulders  after  I had  myself  escaped,  ever  on  the  watch  for  snakes 
and  wild  animals.  Without  real  food  for  days,  burning  with  tropical 
thirst,  my  hand  to  hand  conflict  with  the  jungle  was  near  a dead-lock 
when  there  appeared  far  above  me  three  scattered  Indian  huts.  A 
precipitous  ravine,  armed  to  the  teeth,  lay  between.  I dived  down  into 
it,  to  emerge  almost  an  hour  afterward,  torn,  bleeding,  and  smeared 
with  earth,  at  the  edge  of  another  and  hitherto  unseen  jungled  chasm, 
backed  by  a nearly  impassable  patch  of  uncultivated  sugar-cane.  My 
legs  were  as  ropes  of  sand  when  I approached  an  Indian  in  his  hut 
door,  but  I set  up  a stern  outward  appearance  to  suggest  what  might 
happen  if  he  refused  me  food  and  drink. 

Though  expressionless  as  all  his  race,  he  proved  unusually  tract- 
able, and  soon  brought  out  to  where  I sat  in  the  shade  against  the 
eastern  hut-wall  a steaming  gourdful  of  the  ordinarily  despised  yuca, 
and  what  seemed  to  be  very  young  pork.  I had  half-emptied  the  dish 
before  a bone  too  tiny  for  such  an  origin  caused  me  to  look  up  inquir- 
ingly. 

“ Cui,”  said  the  Indian  laconically. 

Though  I had  often  heard  them  squeaking  about  the  earth  floors 
of  wayside  huts,  it  was  my  first  taste  of  guinea-pig,  to  this  day  the 
chief  meat  of  the  Andean  Indian.  I think  it  was  not  entirely  due  to 
my  prolonged  fast  that  I found  it  more  palatable  than  pork;  but 
small,  distressingly  small,  even  after  the  Indian’s  mate  had  added 
several  clioclo  tandas,  steaming  rolls  of  crushed  green  corn  wrapped  in 
husks. 

The  c amino  real  to  Ayavaca  lay  in  plain  sight  across  the  gully, 

217 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


and  the  town,  according  to  the  Indian,  was  but  two  leagues  off.  But 
the  Andean  traveler  must  learn  not  to  let  his  hopes  grow  buoyant  and 
playful,  and  to  remember  that  two  leagues  from  the  lips  of  an  abor- 
iginal is  as  apt  to  mean  a hard  day’s  travel  as  an  hour’s  stroll.  Never 
once  did  the  “ royal  highway  ” pause  in  its  climb  into  the  lofty  range 
ahead.  My  spirits  rose  and  fell  with  each  opportunity  to  inquire  the 
distance.  Within  two  hours  I had  been  answered:  “Two  leagues,” 

“ six  leagues,”  “ four  hours,”  “ ya  no  ’sta  lejos,”  “ Todavia  ’sta  retir- 
adita,”  “ Ah,  it  is  far  away,  patron,”  and  “ More  than  two  tambos  ” — a 
tambo,  from  the  Inca  word  for  inn,  or  rest-house,  seems  to  mean  about 
a half  day’s  travel.  Sunset  found  me  far  up  on  a great  bleak  table- 
land, a rolling,  broken  world,  wherein  was  no  suggestion  of  a town, 
stretching  away  on  all  sides  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach  even  in  the 
transparent  air  of  these  heights. 

Beyond,  the  trail  passed  close  to  a large  tiled  house  where  a bare- 
foot man  of  Indian  type,  though  white  of  skin  as  myself,  answered  my 
request  for  posada  by  silently  spreading  a small  square  of  cloth  on  a 
log  under  the  projecting  eaves,  and  went  on  with  his  task  of  mending 
with  an  adz  the  crooked  stick  that  served  him  as  plow.  An  enam- 
elled sign  on  the  house-wall,  announcing  it  an  “ Estanco  de  Sal,”  was 
the  only  outward  evidence  that  I had  left  Ecuador  behind.  In  Peru, 
salt,  like  tobacco,  is  a government  monopoly,  sold  only  in  licensed 
shops.  Near  me  several  thinly  attired  women  were  balling  newly  dyed 
yarn,  and  children  were  sprawling  about  the  ground  with  goats,  ' 
chickens,  and  yellow  curs.  A heavy  rain  was  falling.  Uncomfort- 
able as  was  my  position,  I could  do  nothing  else  than  keep  it.  It  was 
not  that  the  family  was  indifferent  or  hard-hearted,  merely  that  I had 
reached  what,  to  their  apathetic  way  of  life,  was  a happy  state, — sitting 
on  a log  under  the  eaves,  and  it  would  hardly  have  been  possible  to 
explain  to  them  that  something  else  would  have  been  needed  for  per- 
fect comfort.  The  man  was  plainly  of  kindly  temperament,  with  some 
education,  of  a sort,  yet  I was  left  to  squat  on  the  log  until  black  night 
had  settled  down,  without  even  an  opportunity  to  remove  the  outer 
evidence  of  the  gaunt  and  strenuous  days  behind. 

Well  after  dark  a half-Indian  girl  set  before  me  a little  wooden 
box,  covered  it  with  a cloth,  and  served  me  an  egg  soup,  followed  by 
a hot  stew  of  yuca  and  beans.  Gradually  the  family  advanced  from 
self-conscious  silence  to  Latin  garrulousness.  By  the  time  I had  been 
invited  inside  and  given  one  of  several  bare  divans  of  reeds  set  into 
the  mud  walls,  the  conversation  I had  sought  in  vain  to  set  going  dur- 

218 


THE  WILDS  OF  NORTHERN  PERU 


ing  the  first  hours  ran  on  unchecked  until  long  after  I would  have  been 
asleep. 

A dense  fog  enveloping  the  mountainside  turned  to  rain  as  I waded 
away  in  the  morning.  Only  by  waiting  hours  could  I have  gotten 
anything  more  than  the  “ aguita,”  a cup  of  hot  water  with  a bit  of 
rapadura  melted  in  it,  on  which  I set  out  for  whatever  the  new  day 
had  in  store.  I had  only  half-suspected  the  height  of  the  world  before 
me.  For  hours  I strained  upward  into  ever  cooler,  green  mountains, 
reeking  mud  underfoot,  with  some  travel,  yet  always  a sense  of  soli- 
tude, even  just  over  the  next  knoll  beyond  a passing  group.  Once  I 
met  a blind  traveler  picking  his  way  quite  swiftly  with  his  stick  along 
the  slippery,  descending  mountain  road.  By  noon  I was  far  up  where 
the  rivers  are  born,  fog  and  clouds  hiding  all  but  the  immediate  world 
about  me.  All  the  hunger  of  the  past  days  seemed  to  have  accumu- 
lated, until  I felt  like  some  starving  beast  of  prey,  ready  to  pounce 
pitilessly  upon  whatever  fell  in  my  way.  Just  beyond  the  abra,  the 
cold,  fog-swept  pass  at  the  summit  of  the  climb,  I came  upon  a house 
of  considerable  size.  Half  skating,  half  wading  down  to  the  door,  I 
found  an  old  and  a young  woman  of  much  Indian  blood  squatting  in 
the  earth-floored  kitchen  near  a large  steaming  kettle  over  the  familiar 
three-stone  cooking-stove  of  the  Andes. 

“No  hay  absolutamente  nada,”  they  replied  unfeelingly. 

I stepped  in,  swung  off  my  load,  and,  showing  Peruvian  silver,  an- 
nounced that  I had  come  to  stay  until  they  had  sold  me  food.  The 
women  sat  motionless,  with  that  passiveness  the  Indian  so  often  de- 
pends upon  to  drive  off  importunate  persons.  I offered  any  reasonable 
price  for  one  of  the  chickens  wandering  about  the  room.  The  older 
woman  m/umbled  that  clumsy,  threadbare  lie,  “ Son  ajenos”  (they  be- 
long to  someone  else).  To  my  suggestion  of  roasted  plantains  she 
answered  that  she  was  ill.  When  I inquired  the  contents  of  the  kettle, 
both  took  refuge  in  the  exasperating  silence  that  is  the  last  weapon  of 
their  race.  A certain  amount  of  patience  is  a virtue ; too  much  is  an 
asininity.  I picked  the  kettle  off  the  fire,  raked  from  the  ashes  one  of 
the  roasting  plantains,  found  a tin  plate  and  a wooden  spoon  stuck 
behind  a sapling  beam  of  the  mud  wall,  and  retired  again  to  the  block 
of  wood  on  which  I had  been  seated.  The  pair  watched  me  in  stolid 
silence.  When  I had  filled  the  plate  the  younger  one  rose  to  carry  off 
the  kettle.  I requested  her,  in  the  voice  of  an  ill-tempered  general 
commanding  a widely  scattered  regiment,  to  leave  it  where  it  was  until 
I had  had  my  fill,  and  the  pair  fled  precipitously  from  the  room,  flinging 

219 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


over  their  shoulders  some  threat  of  calling  the  man  of  the  house.  I 
knew  the  Andean  Indian  too  well  to  fear  trouble,  but  turned  my  face 
to  the  door  and  loosened  my  revolver  in  its  holster.  The  kettle  con- 
tained a boiling-hot  stew  of  beans  and  corn,  sufficient  to  have  fed  a 
dozen  men.  Six  of  them  might  still  have  feasted  on  what  was  left 
when  I tossed  a sol,  easily  four  times  the  whole  kettle’s  worth,  into  the 
empty  plate  and  marched  on  down  the  reeking  mountainside. 

Had  I but  known  it,  however,  I might  have  avoided  resorting  to 
force.  Barely  a mile  beyond  appeared  Ayavaca,  a dismal  and  order- 
less Collection  of  gloomy  adobe,  tiled  houses,  sprawling  on  the  edge 
of  what  evidently  would  have  been  a great  valley  on  a clear  day,  and 
literally  running  with  red  mud.  I skated  down  into  the  plaza  and, 
marching  into  the  open  office  of  the  subprefect,  sent  the  bedraggled 
soldier  on  guard  to  announce  my  arrival.  A gaping  group  of  awk- 
ward, mud-bespattered  mountaineers  quickly  surrounded  me,  but  with 
them  arrived  several  white  men  in  modern  garb,  one  of  whom  an- 
nounced himself  subprefect  of  the  province  of  Ayavaca,  entirely  at 
my  service.  I displayed  my  American  and  Ecuadorian  documents,  re- 
questing him  to  take  official  cognizance  of  my  entry  into  Peru,  and  ex- 
pressed my  august  desire  to  rent  for  a day  or  two  a room  with  bed, 
table,  chair  and  water  supply  — experience  teaches  the  Andean  trav- 
eler to  specify  in  detail  — and  to  be  handed  the  menu  card. 

“ Here  you  are  in  your  own  house,”  replied  the  subprefect,  assum- 
ing the  attitude  of  a sovereign  receiving  credentials  from  an  ambassa- 
dor ; “ You  have  only  to  ask.” 

A cloth  was  soon  spread  on  the  official  government  desk  and,  less 
than  an  hour  after  requisitioning  rations  in  the  mountain  hut,  I was 
sitting  with  the  provincial  commander  and  his  assistants  before  an 
abundance  of  native  viands  that  included  even  the  luxury  of  wheat 
bread.  For  I had  chanced  to  arrive  just  in  time  for  the  “ban- 
quet ” offered  by  the  town  to  its  new  ruler  in  honor  of  his  inaugura- 
tion. 

But  alas,  I had  gained  nothing  in  comfort  by  coming  to  Peru.  The 
available  chamber  in  “ my  own  house  ” proved  to  be  a den  adjoining 
the  subprefect’s  quarters,  the  provincial  harness-and-lamp  room.  It 
was  only  by  much  cajolery  that  I finally  got  it  furnished  with  a 
narrow  five-foot  plank  bench  and  a pair  of  ragged  horse-blankets. 
But  at  least  I could  read  by  night  such  literature  as  I chanced  to  have 
with  me  — by  depriving  the  town  of  one  of  its  few  street-lamps  when 
a soldier  came  to  distribute  them  in  the  evening. 

220 


In  the  semi-tropical  Province  of  Jaen,  in  north  Peru,  sugarcane  grows  luxuriantly.  Lack  of 
labor  and  transportation,  however,  renders  it  difficult  to  make  full  use  of  the  fertility 


The  sugar  that  is  not  turned  into  aguardiente , or  native  whiskey,  is  boiled  down  in  the  trapiche 
into  crude  brown  blocks,  variously  known  as  panelat  chancaca,  rapadura,  em- 
Panisado , papelon,  etc.,  weighed  and  wrapped  in  banana-leaves,  selling 
at  about  5 cents  for  3 pounds 


THE  WILDS  OF  NORTHERN  PERU 


Life  was  dismal  at  best  in  Ayavaca.  The  cold  and  clammy  down- 
pour continued  unabated.  While  I developed  my  exposed  films  in 
water  supplied  by  an  eavestrough,  the  population  blocked  the  doorway 
of  my  “ room,”  making  every  exit  and  entry  like  boarding  a subway 
train  in  the  rush  hour.  There  were  no  real  shops  in  the  dreary 
mountain  town,  but  only  gloomy  mud  huts  where  a few  products  were 
unofficially  sold.  The  one  sidewalk  was  taken  up  by  drenched  and 
downcast  asses,  forcing  pedestrains  to  splash  through  the  unpaved 
street.  The  products  of  the  soil  were  not  high  priced : A guinea- 

pig  — next  to  children  the  most  plentiful  product  of  the  town  — cost 
five  cents;  a live  chicken,  fifteen;  but  it  was  always  easier  to  pay  the 
price  than  to  find  the  chicken  for  sale.  Commerce  was  on  the  friend- 
to-friend  basis,  and  he  who  would  purchase  must  be  well  acquainted 
with  the  seller,  or  a protege  of  the  all-powerful  subprefect.  Only 
liquor  was  to  be  had  in  abundance.  The  provincial  officials,  from  my 
host  down  to  the  village  school-master,  were  more  or  less  intoxicated 
from  mid-morning  to  midnight.  In  that  state,  frankness  protruded 
through  their  racial  courtesy,  and  they  were  divided  in  their  assertions 
between  the  opinion  that  I was  a spy  sent  out  by  my  government  and 
the  conviction  that  I had  been  offered  some  colossal  prize  for  covering 
the  world  on  foot.  It  was  with  difficulty  that  I avoided  sinking  into 
the  general  intoxication.  Whenever  two  or  three  are  gathered  to- 
gether in  Peru,  it  is  the  custom  for  one  of  the  group  to  fill  a glass  from 
the  inevitable  bottle  — and  Peruvian  aguardiente  is  no  harmless  nec- 
tar— then  ask  permission  to  drink  the  health  of  Tal  Fulano  on  his 
right.  “Muchas  gracias,”  says  Tal  Fulano,  and  proceeds  to  drink 
next  — from  the  same  glass  — the  health  of  his  nearest  companion; 
and  so  on  round  and  round  the  circle  to  infinity  and  complete  in- 
sobriety. The  inexperienced  gringo  who  fails  in  the  etiquette  of  this 
custom,  whatever  the  number  of  rounds,  is  looked  upon  with  much 
the  same  contempt  as  the  American  who  lets  his  saloon  companions 
“ set  ’em  up  ” repeatedly  without  offering  to  do  so  himself ; and  runs 
the  risk  of  having  an  incensed  subprefect,  too  far  gone  in  frankness, 
turn  upon  him  and  invite  him  to  make  his  home  elsewhere. 

Every  minute  of  the  day  following  my  arrival  it  rained,  slackening 
somewhat  at  rare  intervals,  only  to  begin  again  with  a roar  that 
sounded  like  an  avalanche  down  a nearby  mountainside.  Twenty- 
four  hours  later  my  films  were  as  wet  as  when  first  hung  up.  Water 
and  mud  invaded  even  our  minds.  Rivers  of  liquid  mud  raced  down 
every  street  and  across  the  broad,  half-cobbled  plaza.  Not  once  dur- 

221 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


ing  the  day  did  the  eye  catch  a hint  of  the  great  valley  on  the  edge  of 
which  Ayavaca  is  perched.  The  few  residents  forced  to  go  out  of 
doors  wore  snecos,  wooden  clog  overshoes  something  like  the  rainy-day 
footwear  of  the  Japanese,  that  increased  the  wearer’s  height  by  a half- 
foot or  more.  The  majority  huddled  in  their  dreary  mud  houses, 
crowding  into  the  low  doorways  to  stare  after  me  when  I passed,  com- 
menting aloud  on  my  raison  d’etre. 

The  post-master  of  Ayavaca  was  a comely  young  woman  of  con- 
siderable Indian  blood,  her  office  scattered  promiscuously  about  the 
baked  mud-dwelling  of  her  parents.  I had  concluded  to  mail  the 
films  and  notebooks  on  hand,  rather  than  risk  their  loss  or  destruction 
in  what  promised  to  be  difficult  going  ahead,  and  having  ransacked  the 
town  for  the  necessary  wrapping  paper,  and  tied  the  package  with 
government  tape,  I presented  it  for  registry.  It  seemed  better  to  make 
a clear  breast  of  the  matter  than  to  risk  the  Pandoric  curiosity  of  the 
Ayavaca  postal  system,  and  I explained  that,  while  the  contents  was 
of  vast  value  to  me  and  the  future  history  of  Peru,  it  was  of  none 
whatever  to  anyone  else.  Stamps  were  at  length  found  in  the  right- 
hand  drawer  of  the  hand  sewing-machine  on  the  earth  floor,  a native 
ink  was  brewed  over  the  fagot-fire  in  the  kitchen  for  the  imprinting 
of  the  official  seal,  dug  out  from  a chest  of  stockings  and  feminine 
small-clothes,  and  after  a social  call  of  more  than  an  hour’s  duration 
I shook  hands  with  the  entire  family,  twice  with  the  post-mistress  her- 
self, and  left  with  her  repeated  reassurance  ringing  in  my  ears: 

“ No  tenga  cuidado  — lose  no  sleep  over  it,  senor;  it  will  go  safely 
to  Europe  and  the  United  States  without  being  lost.” 

Some  time  after  dark,  the  rain  having  at  last  left  off  with  sullen 
grace,  I was  limbering  up  my  legs  for  an  early  start  in  the  morning 
when  I chanced  to  pass  the  corrco.  The  door  was  closed ; but  this  was 
one  of  the  few  houses  of  Ayavaca  boasting  a window  — though  with- 
out glass,  unknown  to  most  towns  of  the  Andes  — barricaded  with 
wooden  bars.  Inside,  gathered  about  an  apathetic  candle,  sat  the  post- 
mistress and  her  entire  family,  the  open  package  in  her  lap  — - passing 
my  films  from  hand  to  hand  and  puzzling  in  vain  over  my  notebooks, 
with  a leisureliness  that  showed  they  had  settled  down  to  make  the 
most  of  a long  evening’s  entertainment.  My  first  impulse  to  snatch 
open  the  door  was  succeeded  by  reflection.  Knowing  the  extreme  sen- 
sibility of  these  Andean  townsmen,  I suspected  that,  were  my  discovery 
known  to  her,  the  post-mistress  would  be  more  than  apt,  out  of  pique,  to 
lose  or  destroy  the  cause  of  her  undoing  before  I could  recover  them 

222 


THE  WILDS  OF  NORTHERN  PERU 


from  government  possession.  I swallowed  the  impulse  and  splashed 
on  through  the  night. 

Months  afterward  I had  word  that  the  package  reached  the  ad- 
dressee in  perfect  condition,  though  in  disorder. 

With  little  more  information  than  that  the  next  town  I must  hunt 
out  of  the  wilderness  was  Huancabamba,  I slid  down  the  red  slopes 
from  Ayavaca,  now  and  then  glancing  back  to  wonder  what  excuse 
even  Spaniards  could  have  considered  sufficient  to  found  a town  in 
such  a location.  The  subprefect,  far  from  providing  the  Indian  guide 
and  carrier  he  had  so  often  promised  in  his  cups,  had  bade  me  “ adios  ” 
from  his  bed,  with  the  cheering  assurance  that  I was  bound  soon  to  lose 
my  way  and  perish.  My  load  was  several  pounds  heavier  than  on  my 
arrival;  for  I had  added  to  it  not  only  a block  of  rapadura  and  seven- 
teen loaves  of  bread  — Ayavaca  size  — but  a huge  chunk  of  fresh 
beef.  Even  my  money  had  become  a burden  again,  for  instead  of  the 
bills  of  Ecuador  my  “ road-change  ” must  now  be  carried  in  silver. 
The  semi-monthly  daily  of  Ayavaca  had  appeared  the  evening  before 
with  an  astonishing  history  of  the  town’s  distinguished  guest,  honoring 
me  with  the  title  of  “ that  intrepid  explorer,”  a designation  which  the 
subprefect  made  use  of  in  his  official  orders  to  his  subordinates  along 
the  way,  and  which,  copied  from  one  document  to  another,  was 
destined  to  cling  to  me  all  the  length  of  Peru.  My  eye  never  fell  upon 
it  that  I did  not  recall  the  native  dishes  I was  so  often  forced  to  delve 
into  during  the  journey. 

Gibbon  asserts  that  the  civilization  of  a country  may  best  be  gaged 
by  the  number  and  condition  of  its  roads.  If  so,  northern  Peru  is 
sunk  in  the  depths  of  barbarism.  The  Incas  swung  bridges  of  withes 
along  their  great  military  highways,  the  Spaniards  built  some  of  stone ; 
the  modern  inhabitants  of  this  region  merely  let  their  roads  grow  up 
of  themselves,  like  brambles  in  an  uncultivated  field.  At  a mountain 
summit,  beyond  a raging  mountain  current  in  which  I all  but  lost  my 
possessions,  immense  gray  curtains  of  fog  left  me  only  instinct  and 
my  compass  by  which  to  choose  between  the  faint  sandy  paths  that 
split  and  forked  at  every  opportunity.  The  trail  I happened  to  take 
zigzagged  quickly  down  into  the  bed  of  a snarling  mountain  stream 
between  sheer  rock  walls,  choked  with  tough,  thorny  undergrowth, 
along  which  it  sprang  back  and  forth  from  rock  to  rock,  dragging  me 
in  pursuit  through  an  endless  tangle  of  vegetation,  often  by  vaulted 
tunnels  through  which  I could  only  tear  my  way  by  creeping  on  all 
fours.  By  dusk  it  had  widened  sufficiently  to  give  the  path  foothold 

223 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


along  one  bank,  and  when  darkness  brought  me  to  a halt,  I found  space 
under  a scraggly  tree  to  spread  my  poncho.  In  my  pack  the  seventeen 
loaves  of  bread  had  amalgamated  with  the  crude  sugar  and  formed 
a coating  about  the  boiled  beef.  I stowed  away  in  my  hat,  for  safe- 
keeping, the  few  more  or  less  whole  loaves,  and  fell  upon  the  pulp  that 
remained.  It  was  a dry  meal,  for  all  the  rain.  Though  the  stream 
close  below  sounded  tantalizingly  in  my  ears  all  the  night  through, 
an  impenetrable  jungle  cut  me  off  from  it,  and  only  the  few  wild 
lemons  I had  picked  along  the  way  ministered  to  the  after-thirst  of  a 
long  day’s  tramp. 

The  pleasure  of  dressing  at  dawn  in  garments  still  dripping  wet  was 
enhanced  by  the  discovery  that  a colony  of  red  ants,  appointing  a 
night-shift,  had  formed  a bread-line  from  my  hat  to  their  neighboring 
village  and  reduced  me  to  a breakfast  of  river  water  where  the  trail 
again  touched  the  stream  a mile  beyond.  Three  solitary  hours  later 
I came  upon  a miserable  little  shack  of  open-work  reeds  and  upright 
poles  topped  by  thatch.  On  the  ground  beside  it  a slatternly  female 
was  cooking  for  several  horsemen.  Two  rivers  ahead  were  reported 
greatly  swollen,  and  I accepted  an  invitation  to  wait  and  accompany 
a youth  bound  for  his  employer’s  hacienda.  Wait  I did,  a full  three 
hours,  amid  the  usual  fauna  of  an  Andean  hut,  while  the  travelers  took 
final  leave  of  each  other  a score  of  times  in  as  many  rounds  of 
aguardiente  de  cana,  a native  concoction  of  distilled  sugarcane,  each 
swallow  of  which  is  to  an  ordinary  mortal  not  unlike  a sudden  blow  on 
the  head  with  a spiked  war-club.  In  the  end,  a calabash  of  yuca 
stew  rewarded  my  patience.  The  youth  staggered  aboard  his  shaggy 
horse  at  last  and  we  descended  quickly  into  a dense,  damp-hot  valley 
with  a broad,  swift  river.  I mounted  the  horse’s  rump  to  cross  two 
arms  of  the  stream  and  a stretch  of  swamp  between,  in  constant  peril 
of  tobogganing  down  the  animal’s  tail,  my  load  dragging  heavily  from 
my  shoulders.  The  moment  I slipped  off  on  dry  land,  the  youth,  still 
distinctly  under  the  influence  of  concentrated  sugar-cane,  demanded 
a “ peseta  ” for  his  services.  Long,  hot  hours  we  marched  along 
thick- jungled  river  beds  in  narrow,  fertile  valleys  enclosed  by  sterile, 
though  green-tinted  mountainsides  bristling  with  cactus.  The  trail 
panted  frequently  over  a steep  desert  hillock,  the  crupper  of  the  animal 
saving  me  much  time  in  disrobing  at  a dozen  smaller  brooks,  between 
which  my  companion  rode  at  my  heels  in  gloomy  silence.  At  a larger 
stream  he  collected  a real  and  announced  that  the  fee  for  crossing  a 
river  ahead  would  be  another  “ peseta.”  As  the  effects  of  permitting 

224 


THE  WILDS  OF  NORTHERN  PERU 


the  unbridled  drinking  of  his  health  wore  off,  he  recalled  the  fiambre 
in  his  saddle-bags,  and  paused  to  offer  me,  with  the  patronizing  air 
befitting  a horseman  toward  a man  afoot,  a handful  of  parched  corn 
and  a rag  of  sun-dried  beef.  Gradually  he  became  less  taciturn,  then 
garrulous  and  gay.  He  was  by  no  means  a peon,  being  assistant 
mayordomo  of  the  estate  toward  which  we  were  headed,  and  even 
wore  shoes.  Yet  when  I photographed  him,  it  required  considerable 
explanation  to  give  him  any  clear  conception  of  what  the  result  would 
be  of  “ pointing  the  foolish  little  machine  ” at  him. 

“ Y su  aposento,  donde  esta?  ” (Where  is  your  lodging  — i.e.,  native 
land?)  he  inquired. 

When  I had  answered,  he  rode  fully  ten  minutes  in  puzzled  silence. 
Then  he  called  out  over  his  shoulder : 

“ Y ese  pais  suyo,  ese  Esta’os  Uni’os,  es  pueblo  6 hacienda?  ” (That 
country  of  yours,  is  it  a village  or  a plantation?) 

The  world,  as  he  knew  it  — and  his  knowledge  was  on  a par  with 
that  of  thousands  of  dwellers  in  the  Andes  — was  made  up  of  those 
two  divisions. 

We  left  a curving  river,  labored  over  a divide,  and  descended  to 
the  Aranza,  a furlong  wide,  roaring  angrily.  At  sight  of  it  the 
youth  regretted  the  bargain  he  had  made,  fearing  his  horse  could  not 
breast  the  swift  current  under  the  weight  of  both  of  us,  and  suggested 
that  I strip  and  swim,  letting  him  carry  my  clothing  and  bundle. 
There  seemed  to  be  no  way  to  avoid  risking  the  wealth  in  my  trousers ; 
but  these  simple  countrymen  of  the  Andes  are  commonly  more  reliable 
in  matters  of  trust  than  appearances  suggest,  and  a well-directed  bullet 
would  avert  any  tendency  to  decamp.  I strapped  my  revolver  about 
my  head  and  plunged  in  for  a ten-minute  struggle  with  the  current, 
but  it  was  not  without  relief  that  I landed  beside  the  exhausted  horse 
and  regained  my  possessions.  We  were  already  within  the  territory 
of  the  “ Hacienda  San  Pablo,”  though  still  miles  from  the  dwelling. 
On  all  sides,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  strain,  the  river  valley  and  the 
mountains  above  were  unbroken  wilderness,  utterly  uninhabited.  Yet 
the  region  was  rich  in  produce.  The  chirimoya,  that  vegetable  ice- 
cream of  the  tropics,  hung  in  car-loads  from  the  trees ; small,  but 
compact  and  juicy  wild  lemons,  carpeted  the  trail.  Parrots  and 
screaming  bands  of  parrakeets  flitted  in  and  out  of  guayaba  and  sapote 
trees ; here  and  there  the  dense-green  dome  of  a mango  tree  shouldered 
its  way  up  through  its  punier  fellows  of  the  forest. 

It  was  nearing  dusk,  and  I was  near  exhaustion  under  my  load  and 

225 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


the  pitiless  tropical  sun  of  seven  unbroken  hours  of  swift,  rough  tramp- 
ing, when  my  companion  pointed  out  far  ahead,  where  the  wall  of  the 
Central  Cordillera  shut  off  the  horizon,  a red  dot  in  the  green  immen- 
sity,— the  hacienda  house.  Black  night  had  fallen  when  we  reached 
the  half-constructed  building,  and  we  stumbled  on  for  some  time  more 
before  we  came  upon  the  rambling  thatched  ruin  in  which  the  owner 
still  lived.  He  was  Eduardo  Medina,  once  a law  student  in  the  Uni- 
versity of  San  Marcos  of  Lima,  a sane,  well-read,  earnest  man,  con- 
trasting strangely  with  the  uncouth  countrymen  about  him.  His  wife, 
a handsome  limena,  was  the  first  woman  of  education  I had  so  far  seen 
in  rural  South  America.  This  extraordinary  Latin-American  couple, 
noting  the  swarms  of  lawyers  that  vegetate  in  provincial  capitals,  had 
renounced  the  uninspiring  flesh-pots  of  the  cities,  and  purchasing  for  a 
song  some  twenty-five  square  leagues  of  semi-tropical  solitude,  had 
come  to  start  life  anew  in  this  wilderness  with  the  shaggy  world  piled 
up  on  all  sides,  and  set  their  race  a much  needed  example.  Here  was 
such  a welcome  as  the  wilderness  traveler  often  dreams,  but  seldom 
attains.  Not  merely  did  they  offer  the  accommodation  Andean  custom 
requires  all  hacendados  to  furnish  travelers,  each  according  to  his  caste, 
but  their  hospitality  was  genuine  and  active.  The  adobe  lean-to  into 
which  I was  led,  for  the  astonishing  Andean  purpose  of  “ washing  up 
before  supper,”  had  not  only  a real  bed,  mattress  and  all,  on  springs  of 
split  bamboo,  but  the  first  sheets  and  pillows  and  suggestion  of  civilized 
comfort  I had  seen  in  Peru.  It  did  not  require  the  reminder  that  the 
morrow  was  Sunday,  and  Medina’s  assertion  that  they  were  famished 
for  civilized  conversation,  to  make  me  accept  his  invitation  to  prolong 
my  stay.  My  companion  of  the  day  never  recovered  from  his  astonish- 
ment at  seeing  the  “ patron  ” seat  at  his  own  table  and  treat  as  an  equal 
a man  who  traveled  on  foot ; and  as  often  as  I caught  his  eye  among  the 
group  that  hovered  about  the  door  all  the  evening,  he  gazed  at  me  in  a 
manner  that  seemed  to  implore  me  not  to  mention  the  reals  he  had  col- 
lected under  the  impressioVi  that  I was  a mere  man,  and  not  a Caballero. 

Fertile  tracts  of  valleys  and  mountains  twenty-five  miles  square  can 
be  bought  in  this  section  of  Peru  for  $250.  Yet  this  does  not  mean 
that  wealth  awaits  the  purchaser.  “ Faltan  brazos,”  as  the  Peruvian 
puts  it ; “ arms  ” are  lacking.  The  scanty  population  has  no  stimulus 
to  exertion  in  a region  where  nature  supplies  their  simple  wants  almost 
without  labor,  and  to  Medina  life  was  a constant  struggle  for  em- 
ployees. In  days  of  fiesta,  when  money  was  needed  to  pay  the  priest 
or  celebrate  a festival,  many  came  to  contract  their  services  and  accept 

226 


THE  WILDS  OF  NORTHERN  PERU 


an  “ advance,”  but  with  no  representative  of  government  at  hand,  there 
was  no  means  of  forcing  them  to  do  the  work  for  which  they  had 
been  prepaid.  Some  labored  languidly  and  intermittently  a few  weeks 
a year,  none  more  than  half  the  days  that  were  not  sacred  to  some 
festival  and  general  drunkenness.  On  the  hacienda  were  a scattered 
score  of  arrendatarios,  native  families  who  rent  a patch  of  ground 
on  which  to  build  a hut  and  plant  a bit  of  yuca  and  corn,  with  the 
right  to  pasture  a few  cattle  on  the  estate,  all  for  a yearly  rental  of 
$2,  which  was  commonly  as  hard  to  collect  as  labor.  The  almost  total 
lack  of  transportation  gave  no  market  for  any  excess  of  produce,  and 
here  was  the  extraordinary  case  of  a university-educated  man  and 
wife  owning  what  would  be  with  us  an  entire  county,  living  a hand- 
to-mouth  existence  very  little  above  abject  poverty.  Oranges,  which 
the  owner  asserted  he  would  be  only  too  happy  to  sell  at  five  cents 
a hundred,  rotted  under  the  trees  faster  than  the  hogs  could  eat  them; 
mangoes  lay  where  they  fell,  and  the  splendid  chirimoya  was  a mere 
worthless  wild  fruit  no  one  took  the  trouble  to  gather,  except  as  per- 
sonal appetite  prompted.  The  sugarcane  they  succeeded  in  raising 
they  were  glad  to  get  any  price  for,  after  it  had  been  squeezed  in 
trapichcs,  crude  presses  run  by  hand,  and  the  guarapo  boiled  down 
into  blocks  of  rapadura  and  wrapped  in  banana  leaves.  Most  of 
it  was  turned  into  aguardiente  that  could  occasionally  be  sent  to 
town. 

My  postal  experience  in  Ayavaca  recalled  to  Medina  one  of  his  own. 
Before  they  left  Lima  to  take  up  their  newly  acquired  residence,  the 
couple  had  found  there  were  two  post-offices,  at  Ayavaca  and  Pacai- 
pampa,  about  equal  distance  from  it,— two  days  on  muleback.  It 
chanced  that  Senora  Medina  had  ordered  her  “ Modas  Femininas  ” 
sent  to  Ayavaca,  while  her  husband  gave  Pacaipampa  as  his  address 
to  the  subscription  department  of  the  daily  “ El  Comercio.”  After 
the  first  few  numbers  only  one  or  two  copies  of  the  newspaper  adorned 
the  weekly  mail-bag  of  the  hacienda.  La  senora  also  noted  that  she 
was  not  receiving  her  fashion  journal  regularly.  The  hacendado 
started  an  investigation.  He  found  that  the  comely  post-mistress  of 
Ayavaca  had  recently  acquired  a considerable  reputation  as  an  au- 
thority on  up-to-date  fashions.  In  Pacaipampa  he  discovered  that 
the  government  mail  service  was  in  the  hands  of  an  old  man  unusually 
well  versed  in  the  politics  of  the  day.  Husband  and  wife  wrote  to 
Lima  ordering  “ El  Comercio”  sent  to  Ayavaca  and  the  “ Modas 
Femininas  ” by  way  of  Pacaipampa.  Since  then  both  had  received 

22  7 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


their  respective  journals  as  regularly  as  transportation  conditions  in 
these  primitive  regions  made  reasonable. 

“You  have  no  inconvenience  in  riding?”  asked  my  host,  as  we  set 
out  on  horseback  to  visit  the  estate  on  Sunday. 

“ Not  at  all,  senor.” 

“ Then  I shall  furnish  you  a mount  to  Huancabamba,”  he  announced. 

I declined.  It  seemed  foolish  to  besmirch  my  long,  unbroken  record 
afoot.  But  he  insisted  on  at  least  sending  a peon  to  carry  my  baggage 
and  to  serve  as  “ guide,”  and  actually  kept  his  promise ! 

“ It  dawned  raining,”  as  they  say  in  the  Andes,  but  the  peon  assigned 
the  task,  because  his  rent  was  in  arrears,  was  already  astride  a good 
saddle-horse  when  I stepped  out  into  the  storm.  Another  debtor  had 
been  ordered  to  furnish  a boiled  chicken,  the  cook,  a bag  of  rice.  With 
few  respites  we  zigzagged  all  day  up  into  the  Cordillera  Central,  ever 
vaster  views  of  the  valleys  about  San  Pablo  opening  out,  though  ad- 
vancing little  except  upward.  Relieved  of  my  load  I seemed  to  have 
wings,  and  in  the  steeper  places  had  often  to  wait  for  the  horseman. 
Barely  a hut  and  not  a traveler  did  we  pass  during  a day  which  ended 
with  a perpendicular  climb  to  a miserable  mud  hovel  on  a high  and 
wintry  pampa.  Alone,  accommodation  might  have  been  refused  me, 
but  my  companion  was  distantly  related  to  the  two  crabbed  females 
who,  with  their  tawny  flock  of  half-naked  children,  existed  in  this 
cheerless  spot,  and  I was  passively  suffered  to  remain.  In  their  mud 
den,  where  the  usual  fagot-fire  was  blazing  under  an  ancient  and 
enormous  kettle  set  on  three  stones,  I sat  down  on  a sort  of  short 
trough  with  six-inch  legs,  one  of  the  “ chairs  ” of  this  region,  when 
any  exist,  and  some  time  later  we  were  served  in  bowls  made  of 
gourds  a boiling-hot  mixture  of  potatoes,  habas,  and  some  mountain 
mystery.  Still  unsatisfied,  I drew  out  my  bag  of  rice.  Valgame  Dios 
if  that  lazy  cook  of  the  “ Hacienda  San  Tablo  ” had  not  delivered  it 
to  me  uncooked ! I followed  the  custom  of  the  place  and  circum- 
stances by  presenting  the  women  with  enough  of  the  grain  to  feed  her 
entire  family  for  a day  or  two,  then  asked  that  a bowlful  be  cooked  for 
me. 

“Now  hay  manteca  — there  is  no  lard,”  mumbled  one  of  the  fe- 
males. 

“Eureka!”  I cried,  “Then  for  once  I can  have  it  cooked  as  it 
should  be.” 

“ There  is  no  other  kettle,”  said  the  woman  in  a faint  monotone,  pro- 
jecting her  lips  toward  that  containing  the  stew. 

228 


The tcnienle-gobernador,  or  “ lieutenant-governor,”  of  The  two  of  us.  “Cleopatra*  and  I in  the  hungry 

Jaen,  whose  duty  it  was,  at  sight  of  my  official  jungles  of  Jaen  some  forty-eight  hours  after  the 

papers,  to  find  me  lodging,  food,  pasture,  last  glimpse  of  a human  being 

and  make  himself  generally  useful 


THE  WILDS  OF  NORTHERN  PERU 


“ I will  wait  until  it  is  empty,”  I replied  cheerfully. 

With  no  other  excuse  to  offer,  she  took  refuge  in  silence.  An  hour 
passed  before  I broke  it  again. 

“ And  the  rice,  sehora,”  I suggested. 

“ No  hay  manteca,”  she  repeated  in  the  same  dull  monotone,  and 
the  conversation  went  on  again  around  the  same  vicious  circle.  For 
more  than  an  hour  I coaxed  and  cajoled,  for  a single  harsh  or  loud 
word  to  these  unwashed  mountain-dwellers  can  undo  a day’s  careful 
pleading.  As  constant  dripping  of  water  in  time  wears  away  even 
stone,  so  my  incessant  return  to  the  subject  at  length  became  even 
more  painful  than  the  stirring  from  their  customary  lethargy.  The 
younger  female  rose  languidly  and  took  from  the  wall  in  a dark  corner 
a perfectly  sound  kettle  just  suited  to  the  purpose  and,  after  deftly 
stealing  about  half  of  it,  set  to  boiling  what  I had  kept  for  myself. 

The  adjoining  den  had  not  only  an  earth  floor,  but  the  hillside  had 
not  been  levelled  before  building.  The  peon  spread  a saddle-blanket 
and  one  of  his  own  ponchos  for  me  as  solicitously  as  a valet  pre- 
paring his  master’s  quarters ; yet  in  as  impersonal  a manner  as  he 
might  have  herded  his  sheep  into  their  corral  for  the  night.  With 
this  protection,  and  my  own  garments  wrapped  about  my  head,  I 
passed  a tolerable  night,  virtually  on  the  ridge  of  the  central  range  of 
the  Andes.  My  peon,  the  two  women,  several  children,  two  half- 
Indian  youths  who  had  arrived  long  after  dark,  at  least  six  dogs,  and 
a score  of  guinea-pigs  all  slept  in  the  same  room  — all,  that  is,  except 
the  cuis,  which  spent  most  of  it  squeaking  about  in  the  dark,  and  now 
and  then  running  over  my  prostrate  form. 

On  the  bleak,  rolling  pampa  of  sear  yellow  bunchgrass,  dotted  by 
a few  shaggy  wild  cattle,  across  which  howled  wintry  winds,  I was 
not  uncorufortable  afoot;  but  the  peon  from  the  “ tierra  caliente  ” of 
his  native  valley  was  blue-lipped  and  chattering  with  cold,  even  with 
his  head  through  several  heavy  blankets  and  a scarf  about  his  face. 
I was  passing  back  over  the  Cordillera  Central  for  the  first  time  since 
Hays  and  I had  traversed  it  by  the  Quindio  pass.  Not  far  below  the 
arctic  summit  we  sighted  the  Huancabamba  river,  born  a few  leagues 
to  the  north,  its  broad,  swift-sloping  valley-walls  spotted  with  little 
green  chacras,  and  gradually  dropped  into  summer  again.  Trees  grew 
up  about  us,  birds  began  once  more  to  sing,  cultivated  fields  shut  in  by 
cactus  hedges  bordered  the  trail.  When  at  last  we  sighted  the  town 
of  Huancabamba  from  far  off,  the  peon  halted  and  asked  to  be  allowed 
to  turn  back.  He  seemed  to  fancy  his  services  had  been  chiefly  those 

229 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


of  “ guide,”  instead  of  baggage-carrier.  I refused  to  take  up  my  bur- 
den again  merely  for  what  I took  to  be  a whim  to  be  back  lolling  in 
the  shade  of  his  own  mango  tree.  It  was  not  until  later  that  I real- 
ized that,  like  most  country  youths  of  his  class  in  Peru,  he  dreaded 
entering  the  provincial  capital,  lest  he  be  held  and  forced  to  serve  in 
the  army. 

The  swift  Huancabamba  river  we  crossed  astride  the  peon’s  horse, 
though  not  both  at  a time.  When  I had  dismounted  on  the  further 
bank,  my  companion  called  the  animal  back  by  a peculiar  sound,  half 
whistle,  half  cluck,  and  not  long  afterward  we  clattered  into  the  famous 
city  of  Huancabamba.  Once  dismissed,  the  peon  left  town  at  once, 
though  darkness  was  already  at  hand.  Medina  had  insisted  that  I 
pay  him  nothing,  as  he  owed  the  hacienda  more  than  two  years’  rent 
— namely,  nearly  four  dollars. 

On  the  map  Huancabamba  seems  of  about  the  size  and  importance  of 
Philadelphia ; on  the  ground  it  is  a moribund  mud  village  in  a half- 
sterile  hollow  between  barren,  towering  mountains.  Historically  it  is 
famous.  Prescott  assures  us  that  “ Guancabamba  was  large,  populous 
and  well-built,  many  of  its  houses  of  solid  stone.  A river  which  passed 
through  the  town  had  a bridge  over  which  ran  a fine  Inca  highroad.” 
How  times  do  change ! Officially,  to  be  sure,  it  is  still  a city ; but  a 
“ city  ” in  this  region  is  a place  where  bread  is  made,  as  those  who 
wear  shoes  are  white,  and  those  who  wear  bayeta  are  cholos  or  Indians. 
Picturesquesness  of  costume  there  was  none,  this  having  disappeared 
near  Cuenca  along  with  the  Quichua  tonque.  Indians  of  pure  race  and 
distinctive  garb  had  been  rare  south  of  Zaraguro ; here  was  still  plenty 
of  Indian  blood,  but  only  in  the  veins  of  “ civilized  ” mestizos.  It  is 
not  far  from  the  watershed  of  the  Andes.  The  town  of  Huarmaca, 
just  up  on  the  ridge  of  the  Cordillera  above,  has  a church  one  side  of 
the  roof  of  which  sends  its  waters  to  the  Pacific,  and  the  other  to  the 
Atlantic. 

There  was  no  suggestion  of  hotel.  The  subprefect  studied  my 
papers  in  great  curiosity,  with  half  the  town  looking  over  his  shoul- 
der, before  he  answered  my  most  important  query  with: 

“ Ah,  it  is  impossible  to-day,  on  such  short  notice.  But  to-mor- 
row — ” 

“ I need  it  to-day,”  I protested,  knowing  it  was  only  a question  of 
insisting,  to  overcome  the  racial  apathy. 

“ Then  I will  give  you  my  bed  and  sleep  on  the  floor ! ” cried  the  sub- 
prefect. 


230 


THE  WILDS  OF  NORTHERN  PERU 


In  that  pompous  moment,  with  a large  delegation  of  huancabambinos 
looking  on,  no  doubt  he  would,  but  such  Andean  self-sacrifice  quickly 
fades  away,  once  the  limelight  is  switched  off. 

“ I prefer  to  rent  a room  of  my  own,”  I persisted. 

“ Ah,  now  that  is  impossible.  But  to-morrow  — ” 

I bowed  my  way  out,  throwing  over  my  shoulder  the  information 
that  I would  go  down  to  the  bank  of  the  river  and  sleep  on  the  ground. 
It  would  be  softer,  and  there  were  bathing  facilities.  Horror  spread 
over  all  faces.  A man,  an  estranjero  who  came  with  the  recommen- 
dations of  great  governments!  Impossible!  The  city  of  Huanca- 
bamba  could  not  permit  it ! When  word  of  it  reached  the  outside 
world  . . . ! Soldiers  were  sent  scurrying  in  all  directions  — and  two 
minutes  later  one  of  them  found  a room  for  rent  in  the  home  of  one  of 
the  “ best  families,”  exactly  across  the  street  from  the  subprefectura. 

It  can  hardly  be  that  I was  the  first  stranger  to  enter  Huancabamba 
since  Hernando  de  Soto  was  sent  by  Pizarro  to  reconnoiter  the  region 
after  the  capture  of  the  Inca.  Yet  one  might  have  fancied  so. 
Whether  it  was  due  to  some  canine  sense  of  smell  we  of  less  favored 
lands  lack,  I never  succeeded  in  getting  within  ten  yards  of  a huanca- 
bambino  before  he  was  staring  at  me  with  bulging  eyes  and  hanging 
jaw,  all  work,  movement,  and  even  conversation  ceasing  as  I drew  near. 
If  I passed  behind  a group  on  a street  corner,  their  necks  went  round 
with  one  accord,  like  those  of  owls,  and  they  stared  after  me  in  un- 
broken silence  as  long  as  I remained  in  sight.  Men  and  women,  well- 
dressed  and  outwardly  intelligent,  dodged  back  into  their  house  or  shop 
as  I appeared,  to  call  wife  or  children  as  they  might  for  a passing  circus 
parade.  The  few  sidewalks  were  really  house  verandas,  sometimes 
roofed,  and  on  all  ordinary  occasions  pedestrians  strolled  along  the 
center  of  the  street.  Now  there  was  a stranger  in  town,  virtually  all 
took  pains  to  cross  to  my  side  of  the  way,  and  though  it  required  a 
distinct  exertion  to  climb  up  to  and  down  from  this  few  yards  of  raised 
sidewalk,  every  inhabitant  seemed  to  find  some  excuse  every  few  min- 
utes to  wander  by  my  door  at  a snail’s  pace  in  his  noiseless  bare  feet. 
If  I began  any  species  of  activity, — to  write,  load  my  kodak,  read,  or 
even  to  wash  my  hands,  the  human  stream  wTas  clogged  like  a log-raft 
against  a snag  and  the  population  stacked  up  about  my  door  until  a 
well-aimed  anything  broke  the  keystone  log,  and  gave  me  again  for  a 
moment  light  and  air.  It  was  the  hospitable  huancabambino  custom 
to  give  me  greeting,  even  when  I was  busy  well  inside  the  room,  and  to 
repeat  the  phrase  in  a louder  and  louder  voice  until  I acknowledged 

231 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


it.  Those  few  who  passed  on  the  further  side  of  the  street  never  failed 
to  shout  “ Buenos  dias  ” across  at  me,  though  they  might  have  looked  in 
upon  me  a bare  two  minutes  before.  Now  and  then  a more  friendly 
member  of  society  wandered  complacently  into  the  room,  to  peer  over 
my  shoulder,  or  to  handle  with  the  innocence  of  a three-year  old  child 
such  of  my  possessions  as  took  his  fancy.  Some  drifted  in  even  at 
night,  long  after  I had  retired,  for,  there  being  no  other  opening,  to 
have  closed  the  door  would  have  been  to  smother. 

In  the  far  recesses  of  the  Andes  the  simplest  matter  may  become 
complex.  My  flannel  road-shirt  had  at  last  succumbed  to  its  varied 
hardships.  Now,  buying  a shirt  may  seem  too  trivial  an  experience 
to  be  worthy  of  mention ; in  the  wilds  of  Peru  it  is  a transaction  of 
deep  importance.  Huancabamba  is  overstocked  with  cloth-shops ; but 
what  Latin- American  shopkeepers  honestly  believe  a “ very  heavy 
shirt  ” would  fall  to  pieces  in  three  days  under  the  exertions  of  a 
society  darling.  One  garment  promising  moderate  endurance  I did 
find,  but  the  combined  jangling  of  all  the  bells  of  Quito  was  as  nothing 
compared  to  its  color  scheme.  Beside  it  the  good  old  American  flag 
would  have  looked  dull  and  colorless.  I set  out  to  find  a woman  will- 
ing to  make  a new  shirt  on  the  pattern  of  the  old.  Most  of  them  did 
not  wish  to ; most  of  the  others  were  too  tired ; two  or  three  had  less 
commonplace  reasons,  such  as  being  in  mourning,  or  having  a pan  to 
wash  before  Sunday,  or  a son  to  be  married  next  week,  or  not  having 
gone  to  confession  recently.  Toward  noon  I caught  a shoemaker’s 
wife  unawares,  and  had  her  promise  to  undertake  the  task  before  she 
could  think  of  a plausible  excuse.  She  thought  a just  price,  I to  fur- 
nish the  cloth,  would  be  twenty  cents ! 

I canvassed  the  shops  for  heavy  khaki.  The  stoutest  on  sale  was 
flimsy  as  a chorus-girl’s  bodice,  its  color  plainly  as  evanescent  as  her 
complexion.  I chose  at  last  from  a bolt  of  cloth  designed  for  after- 
noon trousers,  adding  a spool  of  the  strongest  thread  to  be  had.  Ex- 
perience had  long  since  taught  me  that  the  tailors  of  Latin  America 
use  a thread  so  fine  that  a deep  breath  is  almost  sure  to  burst  a seam 
or  two.  I delivered  the  materials  and  retired  for  a belated  almuerzo 
in  the  mud  hut  where  the  daily  cow  sacrificed  to  Huancabamba’s  appe- 
tite is  sold  in  half-rca/  nibbles.  Now  and  then  an  urchin  entered, 
clutching  a nickel  in  one  besmeared  fist,  to  say  in  the  uninflected  mono- 
tone of  a “ piece  ” learned  in  school : 

“ Media  carne,  media  vuelta,”  (2  cents  worth  of  meat,  2 cents 
change),  to  which  the  answer  was  almost  sure  to  be: 

232 


THE  WILDS  OF  NORTHERN  PERU 


“No  hay  vuelta  ” (there  is  no  change),  whereupon  the  emissary 
wandered  homeward  still  clutching  the  coin,  and  the  family  evidently 
passed  another  meatless  day. 

Barely  had  I returned  to  my  room  when  a fever  fell  upon  me.  At 
the  height  of  the  attack,  when  every  movement  was  a mighty  effort 
and  every  motionless  moment  an  hour  of  deep  enjoyment,  an  urchin 
appeared  with  the  spool  of  thread  I had  provided,  saying  it  was  heavier 
than  Huancabamba  was  accustomed  to  use  and  that  I must  supply  a 
spool  of  No.  60.  I reached  for  the  brick  that  held  back  one  of  the 
leaves  of  the  door,  and  he  disappeared  from  my  field  of  vision.  An 
hour  later  he  came  back  to  report  that  the  seamstress  had  broken  a 
needle  and  refused  to  risk  another.  I suspended  him  by  as  much  of 
a garment  as  he  wore  long  enough  to  promise  to  cut  off  his  ears,  to 
have  the  subprefect  put  the  seamstress  in  prison,  and  to  bring  down 
another  earthquake  upon  Huancabamba  unless  the  contract  solemnly 
entered  into  was  fulfilled  before  sundown ; and  I was  not  sharp-eyed 
enough  to  distinguish  his  little  brown  legs  one  from  the  other  as  he 
sped  back  to  the  zapateria.  At  dusk  the  shirt  was  delivered,  an  exact 
copy  of  the  original,  which  was  bequeathed  to  the  miniature  messenger. 

A diet  chiefly  of  quinine  soon  had  me  ready  for  the  road  again.  My 
load  was  more  burdensome  than  ever.  A long  stretch  of  wilderness 
ahead  required  the  carrying  of  many  pounds  of  food,  and  on  down  the 
valley  of  the  Huancabamba  I wobbled  like  an  octogenarian.  Most  of 
the  day  lay  across  a desert  of  mighty  broken  chasms,  leprous-dry  un- 
der the  blazing  sun,  scarred,  gashed,  and  split  with  scores  of  lines, 
almost  any  of  w'hich  might  have  been  mistaken  for  the  trail.  Some- 
how I chanced  to  pick  the  right  one  and  brought  up  at  dusk  at  the  hut 
of  Alexandro  Bobbio,  far  up  the  chasm  of  a small  tributary. 

Bobbio  was  a wiry  man  of  fifty,  son  of  an  Italian,  though  officially 
a Peruvian,  speaking  only  Spanish,  but  well-read,  and  of  infinitely  more 
industry  and  initiative  than  the  natives.  Unlike  our  own  immigrants, 
those  to  South  America  retain  for  generations  a distinct  evidence  of 
their  origin;  to  the  society  about  them  they  are  still  known  as  “ hijos 
de  italiano,  aleman,  ingles,”  and  the  like,  and  the  traveler  is  almost  cer- 
tain to  find  the  man  thus  designated  of  far  more  worth  than  his  neigh- 
bors, though  commonly  inferior  to  the  race  of  his  fathers.  Bobbio 
was  a government  employee,  stationed  here  in  his  thatched  hut  to 
check  the  cargoes  of  leaf  tobacco  that  “ salen  pa’  fuera,”  or  pass  out 
of  Jaen  province  in  large  quantities  for  Huancabamba  and  the  coast 
in  leather-wrapped  bundles  on  horses,  mules,  and  cattle.  Like  several 

233 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


of  Europe,  the  Peruvian  government  retains  the  monopoly  of  tobacco. 
For  an  official  load  of  69  kilograms  it  pays  $10,  and  in  some  remote 
districts  only  $8.50.  Each  kilo  produces  twenty  packages  of  cigarettes, 
selling  for  thirty  centavos  each ; in  other  words  the  69  kilos  bring  the 
government  $208  gold.  This  system  is  directly  inherited  from  Spain 
and  colonial  days.  Stevenson  found  that  the  King  purchased  tobacco 
at  three  reals  (three-eighths  of  a dollar),  and  sold  it  at  $2,  though 
much  was  spent  on  fiscales.  It  remained  for  republican  Peru  to  open 
a truly  enormous  gulf  between  producer  and  consumer. 

“ I wish  I could  buy  a burro,  even  a half-size  one,”  I sighed,  half  to 
myself,  as  I was  straightening  up  under  my  burden  next  morning. 
Had  he  been  an  unalloyed  Latin-American,  Bobbio  would  have 
shrugged  his  shoulders  and  murmured  something  about  life  being  a sad 
matter  at  best.  Instead,  he  cried  “ Why  did  n’t  you  say  so  ? ” and, 
stepping  out  into  the  sunshine  flooding  the  arid  world  like  a shower  of 
gold,  waved  his  arms  in  some  local  code  of  wigwagging  at  a hut  hung 
high  up  on  the  desert  hillside  across  the  “ river.”  Not  long  after  there 
drifted  up  before  the  corredor  where  we  sat  in  the  shade  a sun-scorched 
mestizo  youth  leading  a small  donkey,  shaggy  as  a bear  just  emerging 
from  his  winter’s  den.  It  proved  to  be  a female  of  the  species,  about 
sweet  sixteen  as  donkeys  go,  and  due  in  the  years  to  come  to  double 
in  size ; moreover,  she  was  chucaro,  in  other  words  had  never  yet 
contributed  to  the  labor  of  the  world,  and  appeared  to  the  youth  to 
be  worth  twelve  soles.  There  ensued  the  usual  verbal  skirmish  before 
we  compromised  at  ten.  Clipping  an  effigy  of  the  King  of  England 
from  my  waist-band,  I held  it  out  to  the  mestizo.  He  shied  at  it  like 
a colt  at  a flying  newspaper.  The  Incas,  we  are  told,  forbade  the  com- 
mon people  to  possess  gold.  Whether  it  is  due  to  that  prohibition, 
passed  down  by  tradition  to  the  present  day,  or  to  mere  contrariness, 
the  countrymen  of  the  Andes  still  insist  on  doing  their  transactions  in 
silver.  Indeed,  “ plata  ” is  the  most  common  word  for  money  in  all  the 
region.  Bobbio  had  no  prejudice  against  gold,  however,  and  taking 
ten  silver  “ cartwheels  ” from  a hairy  cowhide  chest  in  a far  corner 
of  his  hut,  he  dropped  them  into  the  youth’s  outspread  hands,  and  the 
latter  sped  away  up  the  sun-flooded  hillside  to  his  hovel,  leaving  me  in 
possession  of  a No.  4 size  donkey  and  the  ancient  hawser  with  which 
it  was  moored  to  a post  of  Bobbio’s  dwelling. 

The  first  necessity  was  a name  for  the  animal.  Her  startling  beauty 
against  the  background  of  the  Egyptian  landscape  made  “ Cleopatra  ” 
obvious.  Then  came  the  problem  of  the  furniture  without  which 

234 


THE  WILDS  OF  NORTHERN  PERU 


no  Andean  donkey  will  carry  even  a man’s  load.  Bobbio  donated  an 
old  grain-sack.  Over  this  went  my  poncho.  Thirty  centavos  seemed 
a just  price  for  a corona,  a donkey  “ saddle  ” of  wood  of  saw-buck 
shape.  For  another  sol  I became  the  legal  possessor  of  a large  and 
stout,  if  rather  aged,  pair  of  alforjas,  or  cloth  saddle-bags,  in  which 
my  forty  pounds  could  be  evenly  balanced.  Around  these,  donkey  and 
all,  Bobbio  wound  with  the  intricacy  of  long  experience  several  yards 
of  rope,  and  at  blazing  ten  I was  off  at  last  — to  have  my  entire  worldly 
possessions  immediately  dash  away  up  the  hillside  into  a jungle. 

When  they  had  been  recovered,  a nephew  of  Bobbio  volunteered  to 
pilot  my  new  ship  out  of  harbor.  With  the  tow-rope  and  a cudgel  in 
hand  he  got  the  craft  under  way,  then  gradually  the  cudgel  sufficed 
both  as  rudder  and  throttle.  A mile  from  home  he  turned  the  com- 
mand over  to  me  and  away  we  went  alone  up  the  narrowing  valley  into 
the  Huazcaray  range,  “ Cleopatra  ” waltzing  ahead  of  me  up  the  slope 
like  a school-girl  on  a holiday.  It  seemed  ridiculous  that  any  traveler 
with  a donkey  should  ever  have  had  difficulties  — unless  he  expected  a 
bag  filled  even  in  the  middle  to  lie  contentedly  on  the  animal’s  back. 
With  only  a slight  shift  to  one  side  or  the  other  every  hour  or  two 
the  alforjas  rode  like  a cavalryman. 

We  zigzagged  high  over  a range,  coming  out  above  what  was  evi- 
dently an  immense  valley,  heaped  full  of  white  clouds  as  the  basket  of 
a plantation-picker  with  cotton,  and  began  to  go  swiftly  down  through 
reddish  mud  ruts  deeper  than  “ Cleopatra  ” was  high.  Then  we 
picked  up  the  Tamborapo  river  near  its  source,  and  descended  along  a 
grassy  valley  walled  by  bushy  hillsides. 

In  this  region  of  northern  Peru,  the  Andes  break  down  into  great 
sweltering  gorges  and  tropical  wildernesses  instead  of  the  unbroken 
high  pampas  the  range  seems  to  promise.  The  traveler  so  foolish  as  to 
journey  through  it  catches  the  valley  of  a river  as  it  tears  its  way 
across  the  jungled  mountain  wilderness,  follows  it  as  far  as  possible, 
then  fights  his  way  across  a divide,  to  descend  or  ascend  another  stream. 
Neither  waterway  is  likely  to  run  in  anything  like  the  direction  he 
would  go,  but  by  tacking  like  a ship  against  a head  wind  he  advances 
bit  by  bit,  with  an  exertion  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  actual  progress, 
toward  the  nebulous  goal  he  has  set  himself.  The  distance  between 
two  hamlets  a hundred  miles  apart  is  often  three  hundred  miles  in  this 
labyrinthian  province  of  Jaen,  officially  a province  of  Peru,  but  still 
disputed  by  Ecuador,  as  the  boundary  was  between  Atahuallpa  and 
Huascar  at  the  coming  of  the  Spaniards.  So  low  is  the  region  that 

235 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


the  local  expression  for  entering  “la  Provincia,”  as  Jaen  is  known 
locally,  is  “ Va  pa’  dentro  — to  go  down  inside,”  as  might  be  designated 
the  entrance  into  the  realms  of  the  unrighteous  departed. 

Perfection,  alas,  is  not  of  this  world.  Now  that  I might  have  added 
a plentiful  supply  of  foodstuffs  to  my  pack  without  increasing  my  bur- 
dens— for  “Cleopatra”  had  been  sold  under  a guarantee  to  carry  a 
hundred  pounds  — I had  reached  a section  of  the  world  where  food 
is  under  no  circumstances  for  sale.  Furthermore,  with  a thousand 
miles  of  road  just  suited  to  donkeys  behind  me,  it  must  be  my  fortune 
the  morning  after  at  last  acquiring  one  to  strike  the  worst  possible 
road  for  them.  Strictly  speaking,  there  was  no  road ; but  for  certain 
spaces  trees  enough  had  been  felled  to  make  passage  through  the  forest 
possible,  and  the  rainy  season  and  tobacco-trains  had  combined  to  turn 
these  clearings  into  unbroken  miles  of  camelones,  those  corduroy-like 
ridges  of  hard  earth  with  a coating  of  slippery  mud,  alternating  with 
ditches  of  liquid  mud  from  two  to  three  feet  deep.  A pedestrian, 
even  with  forty  pounds  on  his  back,  may  trip  along  the  tops  of  these 
as  blithely  as  a youthful  opera  company  counting  the  ties  from  Red 
Cloud  to  Chicago.  But  to  attempt  to  drive  a half-grown  jackass, 
laden  with  all  the  driver’s  earthly  possessions  in  far  from  water-proof 
cloth  sacks,  through  mile  after  monotonous  mile  of  them,  under  an 
endless  tropical  downpour,  is  an  experience  to  stir  the  most  blaze  and 
world-weary  soul.  Those  steps  at  which  the  uncomplaining  little  brute 
did  not  slip  off  into  the  ditch  behind  the  ridge  on  which  she  had  set 
her  feet  were  those  in  which  she  fell  with  a still  more  far-reaching 
splash  into  the  ditch  ahead.  Usually  each  pair  of  feet  was  divided  in 
its  allegiance,  and  reduced  the  animal  to  that  artistic  performance 
popularly  known  in  pseudo-histrionic  circles  as  “ splitting  the  splits.” 
More  times  than  I could  have  counted,  “ Cleopatra  ” fell  down  length- 
wise, crosswise,  frontwise,  and  hindwise,  on  her  head,  on  the  side  of 
her  neck,  on  her  bedraggled  tail,  on  every  part  of  a donkey 
known  to  anatomy,  showering  me  with  mud  from  the  crown  of  my 
hat  to  my  inundated  boots,  soaking  my  possessions  in  seas  of  mud,  now 
and  then  frankly  lying  down  in  despair,  as  often  attempting  to  shirk 
her  just  portion  of  this  world’s  troubles  by  dashing  into  the  impene- 
trable dripping  jungle  and  smashing  my  maltreated  belongings  against 
the  trees.  From  time  to  time  she  became  hopelessly  entangled  with  a 
train  of  pack-animals  “ going  outside,”  forcing  me  to  wade  in  and  lift 
her  bodily,  pack  and  all,  out  of  some  slough  above  which  little  more 
than  her  drooping  ears  were  visible.  In  short,  when  this  “ royal  high- 

236 


The  government  44  ferry  ” across  the  Huancabamba,  with  the  balseros  imbibing  the  last 
Dutch  courage  before  attempting  to  set  the  chasqui , or  mailman,  and  me, 
with  our  baggage,  across  the  flood-swollen  stream 


THE  WILDS  OF  NORTHERN  PERU 


way  ” waded  across  the  barnyard  of  the  “ Hacienda  Charape,”  it  did 
not  require  a particularly  sincere  invitation  to  cause  me  to  spend  the 
rest  of  the  day  there. 

The  hacendados  of  this  region,  owning  whole  ranges  of  moun- 
tains and  valleys,  live  scarcely  better  than  the  Indians  in  their  hovels. 
Both  father  and  son  in  this  case  wore  shoes  and  read  the  Lima  news- 
papers— from  a month  to  six  weeks  old  — yet  their  earth-floored  and 
walled  dining-room  swarmed  with  unspeakably  dirty  peon  children,  and 
pigs  all  but  uprooted  the  table  as  we  ate.  The  slatternly  female 
cooking  over  three  stones  in  an  adjoining  sty  served  us  boiled  rice 
mixed  with  cubes  of  pork  in  a single  bowl  from  which  we  all  helped 
ourselves  indifferently  with  spoon  or  fingers.  Father  and  son  slept  on 
a sort  of  home-made  table  covered  with  a pair  of  ragged  blankets  in  a 
mud  den  overrun  by  domestic  animals  and  littered  with  all  the  noisome 
odds  and  ends  of  a South  American  harness-room.  Yet  their  speech 
was  as  redundant  with  formalities  as  that  of  a Spanish  cavalier  in  the 
king’s  court. 

Though  I knew  there  was  a long,  foodless,  and  uninhabited  region 
ahead,  I could  add  but  little  to  “ Cleopatra’s  ” nominal  load  in  prepara- 
tion for  it,  for  to  offer  to  buy  supplies  would  have  been  considered  an 
insult  to  my  hosts  equal  to  an  attempt  to  pay  for  my  accommodation. 
Costumbre,  inbred  for  long  generations,  forces  these  rural  hacendados 
of  Peru  to  consider  it  beneath  their  dignity  to  sell  anything,  except  the 
rapadura  and  home-made  fire-water  they  look  upon  as  their  legitimate 
source  of  income,  yet  they  are  too  miserly  to  give  much.  The  best  I 
could  do  was  to  accept,  with  signs  of  deep  gratitude,  two  small  cotton 
sackfuls  of  chifles  and  charol;  the  former,  bone-hard  slices  of  plan- 
tains warranted  to  keep  forever  in  any  climate  and  taste  like  oak  chips 
to  any  appetite;  the  latter,  hard  squares  of  fried  fat  pork  of  the  size  of 
small  dice.  Then,  of  course,  there  was  the  inevitable  slab  of  crude 
sugar  wrapped  in  banana  leaves. 

The  “ road  ” was  worse  than  that  of  the  day  before.  Times  without 
number  I concluded  the  end  of  the  journey  had  come  for  one  of  us,  yet 
somehow  the  maltreated  little  brute  sprawled  forward  through  the 
pouring  rain.  Dense,  dripping,  unbroken  forests,  abounding  with  the 
red  berries  of  wild  coffee,  crowded  close  on  either  hand.  Below,  the 
swollen  Tamborapo  roared  incessantly  close  alongside,  adding  to  the 
constant  fear  of  losing  all  my  possessions  the  continual  dread  of  reach- 
ing some  impassable  stream.  Toward  the  end  of  a day  during  which 
we  had  forded  a dozen  difficult  tributaries,  we  were  halted  by  a raging 

237 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


branch,  plainly  foolhardy  to  attempt.  I chased  “ Cleopatra  ” up 
through  the  jungle  alongside  it,  until  darkness  came  on  and  forced 
us  to  camp  in  a tiny  open  space,  my  perishable  possessions  hung  in 
the  trees  against  destruction  by  ants,  and  the  donkey  tied  to  the  trunk 
that  formed  my  bed-post.  All  night  long  the  animal  walked  round 
and  round  over  me,  though  without  once  stepping  on  my  prostrate 
form  or  the  heaped-up  baggage.  In  the  morning  we  tore  our  way 
far  on  up  the  tributary  before  we  came  in  sight  of  a “ bridge,”  that  is, 
two  poles  tied  with  vines  to  a tree  on  either  bank.  I had  piled  my  gar- 
ments on  top  of  the  load  and  was  just  dragging  my  reluctant  baggage- 
car  into  the  stream,  when  a half-naked  youth  appeared  on  the  opposite 
bank,  making  wild  signs  to  me  across  the  uproar  of  waters.  By  the 
time  I had  regained  the  shore,  he  arrived  in  abbreviated  shirt  by  way 
of  the  “ bridge,”  carrying  a stout  staff  and  a rope.  With  these  he 
dragged  the  donkey,  stripped  stark  naked,  into  the  stream  and,  fer- 
vently crossing  himself  twice,  fought  his  way  with  it  into  the  torrent; 
while  I made  three  trips  mlonkey-fashion  along  the  tree-lashed  poles 
with  the  baggage  that  would  infallibly  have  been  washed  away  but  for 
this  experienced  jungle-dweller.  His  particular  saint  did  not  fail  him 
and,  having  delivered  the  drenched  and  disgusted  animal  to  me  on  the 
further  bank,  he  accepted  a real  with  a gratitude  that  suggested  he  con- 
sidered himself  well-paid  for  risking  his  life. 

Slowly,  monotonously,  day  after  day,  we  pushed  on  through  the 
Amazonian  jungle — 'Amazonian  not  only  in  appearance,  but  because 
the  Tamborapo,  soon  to  join  the  Maranon,  forms  a part  of  the  great 
network  of  the  Father  of  Waters.  The  unpeopled  forest,  draped  with 
vines  that  here  and  there,  like  broken  cables,  dipped  their  ends  in  the 
stream,  seemed  to  have  no  end.  The  absolute  solitude  of  the  region, 
ever  shut  in  by  impenetrable  jungle,  with  never  a view  of  the  horizon, 
with  no  sign  of  the  existence  of  humanity  and  no  other  sounds  than  the 
occasional  scream  of  a bird  and  the  constant  roar  of  the  stream,  had  a 
peculiar  effect  on  the  moods.  One  felt  abandoned  by  the  world,  and 
came  to  look  upon  all  nature  as  a cruel  prison-warden  determined  that 
his  prisoner  should  never  again  be  permitted  to  pick  up  the  threads  of 
his  existence,  nor  even  communicate  with  the  world  that  had  abandoned 
him.  The  very  silence  added  to  the  gloom,  until  I felt  like  screaming, 
“Well,  speak,  burro!”  It  was  a relief  not  to  sweat  under  my  own 
load,  but  it  was  distinctly  more  laborious  to  drive  it  before  me.  Day 
after  day  I beat  up  “ Cleopatra’s  ” rear  from  dawn  to  dusk  without  a 
pause,  yet  covered  scarcely  half  the  distance  I might  have  plodded 

238 


THE  WILDS  OF  NORTHERN  PERU 


alone.  Even  where  the  trail  was  level  and  dry,  the  docile,  yet  head- 
strong brute  could  not  exceed  two  miles  an  hour;  wherever  a bit  of 
slope,  or  stones  and  mud  intervened,  she  picked  her  way  with  the 
cautious  deliberation  of  an  old  lady  entering  a street-car.  Insects 
swarmed.  My  unshaven  face  and  all  the  expanse  of  skin  from  crown 
to  toes  were  blotched  and  swollen  with  their  visitations.  The  chiiles 
and  charol  gave  out  and  left  only  the  lead-heavy  rapadura  and  river- 
water  as  hunger  antidotes.  On  the  third  day  even  the  last  chunk  of 
crude  sugar  disappeared,  and  still  the  two  of  us  plodded  on,  equally 
gaunt  and  lacking  in  ambition  and  energy. 

I had  lived  on  river-water  for  more  than  twenty-four  hours,  and 
lost  my  way  several  times  on  forking  trails  that  climbed  to  nowhere 
far  above,  or  were  swallowed  up  in  the  jungle,  when  I guessed  again  at 
a path  that  climbed  up  out  of  the  valley  of  the  river.  By  and  by  it 
sweated  up  to  a hut  of  open-work  poles,  where  lived  a vaqucro  in 
charge  of  the  stock  of  a vast  hacienda  of  the  wilderness.  Only  a little 
girl  of  eight  was  at  home,  and  she  did  not  know  that  roads  were 
meant  to  lead  anywhere.  Tying  “ Cleopatra  ” in  the  shade  of  the 
eaves,  I sat  down  to  await  adult  information.  Starvation  seemed  to 
have  danced  its  orgy  for  weeks  before  my  weary  eyes  when  the  child 
came  out  with  a fat,  ripe  chirimoya,  to  lisp  in  a shaky  voice,  “ Le  gu‘ta 
e‘ta  fruta?”  Hours  later  a gaunt,  tropic-scarred  man  appeared,  and 
at  sight  of  me  shouted  the  stereotyped  greeting  of  all  his  class  to  any 
visitor  ahorse  or  afoot : 

“ Apease  — dismount,  senor.” 

When  I declined  with  the  customary  formalities,  he  opened  pre- 
liminary inquiries  as  to  my  biography.  I broke  in  upon  them  to  sug- 
gest food. 

“ Entra  y descansa,  senor,”  he  replied,  “ Sientese.” 

The  rural  Peruvian  would  invite  one  to  enter  and  take  a seat  — on  a 
block  of  wood  — if  he  came  to  put  out  a fire.  He  produced  a glass 
made  from  a broken  bottle  and  insisted  on  my  partaking  of  his  hos- 
pitality to  the  extent  of  drinking  his  health  in  the  aguardiente  into 
which  he  turned  his  sugar-cane  in  a little  thatched  distillery  down  in  a 
hollow  nearby.  But  my  every  hint  of  a desire  to  buy  food  was  diplo- 
matically ignored,  except  that  he  accepted  readily  enough  a real,  and 
sent  the  child  “ upstairs  ” ; that  is,  to  crawl  up  to  and  along  the  reed 
ceiling,  to  fetch  me  a leaf-wrapped  chunk  of  rapadura. 

The  invisible  trail  he  pointed  out  pitched  down  a leg-straining  and 
almost  perpendicular  bajada  of  loose  stones  to  another  stream,  then 

239 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


struggled  breathlessly  upward  through  unbroken  forest  over  the  Gua- 
ranguia  “ range,”  a jungled  mountain  spur,  from  the  crest  of  which 
there  spread  out  before  me  the  vast  panorama  of  an  upper-Amazon 
hoya,  the  Tamborapo  far  below  squirming  away  through  its  steep 
dense-wooded  valley;  and  all  about  it  half-barren  hills  of  varying 
colors  that  gave  the  landscape  the  appearance  of  a tempestuous  sea 
turned  to  jungle  earth.  Red  cliffs,  like  our  western  buttes,  flashed 
their  faces  in  the  sunset,  and  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach  in  any  di- 
rection was  no  sign  that  man  had  ever  before  entered  this  trackless 
wilderness. 

It  was  nearing  dusk  when  the  world  fell  away  before  us  into  a great 
wooded  quebrada,  its  bottom  unfathomable,  but  with  a trail  in  plain 
sight  fighting  its  way  up  the  opposite  slope.  The  path  underfoot 
melted  away,  and  where  “ Cleopatra  ” led,  I followed,  certain  she  knew 
the  way  as  well  as  I.  The  ghost  of  a trail  she  had  chosen  turned  to  a 
perpendicular  cowpath  down  which  the  animal  sprawled  and  stumbled, 
bumping  her  load  against  the  trees,  but  unable  to  fall  far  through  the 
dripping  forest  that  grew  up  impenetrably  about  us.  Dense,  black 
night  found  us  at  the  bottom  of  a V-shaped  valley.  I sought  the  cor- 
responding path  on  the  opposite  side  of  its  small  stream  by  feeling 
with  both  feet  and  hands,  but  it  was  as  intangible  as  the  “ straight 
and  narrow  path”  of  theological  phraseology.  To  cheer  things  on, 
it  began  to  rain  in  deluges.  I made  the  most  of  a genuinely  Peruvian 
situation  by  halting  for  the  night  where  there  was  at  least  drinking- 
water.  So  sharp  was  the  valley  that  there  was  not  even  a flat  space 
large  enough  to  stretch  out,  and  I could  only  curl  up  in  the  muddy 
path  that  had  brought  us  to  this  sad  pass,  tumbling  my  soaked  baggage 
somewhere  beside  me  and  tying  the  exhausted  animal  to  something 
in  the  dark,  where  there  was  neither  a leaf  to  eat  nor  a spot  for  the 
brute  to  lie  down  in. 

By  morning  light  I found  that  “ Cleopatra’s  ” inexperience  and 
asinine  judgment  had  led  us  to  a place  where  wild  cattle  came  to  drink, 
and  we  were  forced  to  struggle  back  to  the  crest  of  the  hill,  and  descend 
again  by  another  trail  that  linked  up  with  the  one  we  had  seen  the  after- 
noon before.  At  its  foot  was  a field  of  swamp-grass,  in  which  the 
starving  animal  spent  the  rest  of  the  morning  in  regaining  strength  for 
the  climb  ahead.  Above,  a new  style  of  landscape  spread  out  before 
us.  A vast,  bushy  plain  was  passable  only  by  following  the  windings 
of  a sandy  and  stony  river-bed,  and  wading  with  monotonous  frequency 
the  stream  that  swung  back  and  forth  across  it,  like  a person  utterly 

240 


THE  WILDS  OF  NORTHERN  PERU 


devoid  of  a sense  of  direction  or  power  of  decision.  Beyond,  we 
tramped  monotonously  on  through  endless  chaparral,  thorn-bristling, 
bushy  woods  where  reigned  an  utter  solitude  only  enhanced  by  the 
mournful  cry  of  some  unseen  bird.  The  most  constantly  recurring 
form  of  vegetation  was  the  tusho,  a sort  of  cottonwood  tree  with  a 
trunk  swollen  as  a gormand’s  waist-line.  Endlessly  this  dismal  wil- 
derness stretched  onward  from  dawn  to  dark,  until  the  traveler  could 
fancy  himself  in  solitary  confinement  for  life,  and  in  danger  of  losing 
the  mind  for  which  he  could  find  no  employment.  The  region  would 
have  been  more  endurable  had  I been  able  to  stride  forward  at  my  own 
pace ; but  “ Cleopatra  ” sentenced  me  to  a monotonous,  unchanging 
snail’s  gait  that  gave  sufficient  exercise  only  to  my  right  arm  and  the 
cudgel  it  bore.  Hundreds  of  red  centipedes  littered  the  ground ; the 
dead,  dry  silence  was  broken  only  by  the  rhythmic  mournful  cry  of  a 
jungle  bird.  But  here  the  going  was  smooth,  and  for  long  distances 
our  pace  was  so  unbroken  that  there  ran  through  my  unoccupied  mind 
for  hours  at  a time  the  paraphrase  of  an  old  refrain : 

“Two  jacks  with  but  a single  gait; 

Six  feet  that  walk  as  one.” 

Next  to  the  tusho,  the  tree  that  most  often  repeated  itself  was  the 
guaba,  producing  a fruit  like  large  brown  beanpods  filled  with  black 
seeds,  the  white  pulp  of  wffiich  had  thirst-quenching  qualities  and  a 
taste  mildly  resembling  the  water-melon. 

I had  lost  account  of  days  entirely,  but  subsequent  checking  up 
proved  it  was  a Sunday  afternoon  when  I halted  at  the  “ Hacienda 
Shumba  ” and,  spreading  out  my  mouldy  garments  on  the  thatch  roof 
of  its  only  hut,  awaited  the  owner.  He  proved  to  be  the  teniente 
gobernador,  the  lieutenant-governor  of  the  region,  in  the  sun-bleached 
remnants  of  two  garments  and  a hat.  Having  turned  “ Cleopatra  ” 
into  a pasture,  he  settled  down  to  spell  out  the  documents  I presented. 
Strictly  speaking,  he  was  not  the  hacienda  owner,  but  only  an  “ arren- 
datario.”  Though  I had  not  suspected  it,  I had  been  traveling  for 
days  through  estates  which,  as  benehcencias  or  cofardias,  belong  to 
the  bishopric  of  Trujillo,  and  it  is  partly  the  heavy  hand  of  the  Church 
that  keeps  this  region  so  solitary  and  uninhabited.  The  so-called 
owners  are  really  agents  who  administer  them  for  the  tonsured  land- 
lords, collecting  a rental  from  the  few  families  who  raise  a bit  of  rice, 
cacao,  and  cattle.  The  region  is  far  less  rich  than  it  is  locally  reputed. 
The  soil  of  the  river-valleys  is  fertile,  but  the  mountains  are  rocky  and 
often  arid  and,  especially  in  this  section,  poorly  served  by  the  rains. 

241 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


A government  official  himself,  my  host  complained  bitterly  against 
the  government  tax  on  tobacco,  liquor,  sugar,  salt,  and  matches.  The 
first,  he  asserted,  was  no  longer  worth  planting.  All  non-Peruvians 
were  “ gringos  ” to  the  teniente  gobernador.  A fellow-countryman 
of  mine,  he  asserted,  had  spent  a night  with  him  recently  — hardly  two 
years  before.  He  was  — let ’s  see  — an  Italian ; no,  a German. 
Though  he  could  read  and  write,  laboriously,  and  had  long  been  a 
government  official  — on  compulsion  and  without  emoluments  — the 
world,  as  he  conceived  it,  consisted  of  Peru  and  another  very  much 
smaller  country,  with  several  towns  of  more  or  less  the  same  size  and 
conditions  as  the  two  villages  of  Jaen  and  Tocabamba  he  had  seen, 
named  Germany,  Italy,  Estados  Unidos,  and  so  on,  from  which  came 
the  various  types  of  “gringos.” 

Indeed,  he  wished  to  know,  “ Is  Germany  in  the  same  country  as 
the  United  States?” 

“ What  do  you  call  a native  of  Jaen?  ” I chanced  to  ask  him  in  the 
course  of  our  conversation. 

“ A Jaense,  to  be  sure,”  he  replied.  “ Just  as  you  call  a native  of 
Italy  an  italiano,  or  a man  from  the  town  named  France  a frances.” 
But  if  his  knowledge  was  slight,  it  was  no  less  tenacious,  and  he 
could  no  more  be  talked  out  of  his  geographical  conceptions  than  out 
of  his  conviction  that  all  the  world  lives  in  reed-and-mud  huts  with 
earth  floors,  goes  habitually  barefoot,  and  considers  its  dwellings  fit 
breed-places  for  guinea-pigs.  When  I asked  him  if  the  road  beyond 
Jaen  was  good,  I was  startled  to  hear  the  assurance: 

“ Ah,  yes,  indeed.  There  are  no  bad  roads  in  Peru ! ” 

A divan  of  reeds,  set  into  the  mud  wall  of  the  single  room  and  cov- 
ered with  a hairy  cowhide,  was  quite  soft  enough  as  a bed  for  one  who 
had  long  since  left  effeminate  civilization  behind.  Until  long  after 
dark  we  two  men  and  a woman  squatted  in  home-made  chairs  fitting  to 
a doll’s  house,  and  fed  ourselves  over  our  knees.  Yet  the  conventions 
of  society  are  quite  as  fixed  in  these  hovels  of  the  wilderness  as  in 
any  palace  of  aristocracy.  It  was  quite  a la  mode,  a sign  of  good 
breeding,  in  fact,  to  ask  for  a second  helping  of  the  bean  and  yuca 
stew  — which  is  invariably  served  so  boiling  hot  that  even  the  expe- 
rienced “ gringo’s  ” teeth  suffer  — but  under  no  circumstances  for  a 
third.  When  they  had  been  emptied  a second  time,  the  gourd  bowls 
were  piled  up  on  the  floor  in  a corner,  to  be  washed  when  the  spirit 
moved,  and,  as  if  at  a signal  that  there  was  no  second  course,  the  one 
glass  in  the  house,  tied  together  with  a string  and  evidently  regarded  as 

242 


THE  WILDS  OF  NORTHERN  PERU 


a great  treasure  and  heirloom,  was  filled  with  irrigating-ditchwater  and 
passed  around  the  circle,  beginning  with  the  guest.  The  feeble  imita- 
tion of  a candle  soon  flickered  out,  and  by  eight  we  were  all  scattered 
along  the  walls  of  the  hut  on  our  reed  divans,  quarreling  pigs  shaking 
the  house  as  they  jostled  against  it,  and  the  rain  that  fell  heavily  all 
night  long  dripping  upon  us  here  and  there  through  the  thatched  roof. 

“Cleopatra”  was  so  nearly  rendido — “bushed” — next  morning 
that,  even  under  her  slight  load,  she  wabbled  drunkenly  and  kept  her 
footing  chiefly  because  the  heavy,  glue-like  mud  clung  to  our  feet  like 
pedestals  to  a statue.  For  one  considerable  space  the  way  led  through 
a swamp,  where  I was  several  times  forced  to  wade  knee-deep  to  carry 
out  the  load  and  lift  the  bemired  animal  to  her  feet.  Yet  drinkable 
water  was  not  to  be  had,  and  the  choking  tropical  humidity  was  the 
more  tantalizing  as  rain  broke  every  few  minutes,  and  everything  in 
sight  was  dripping  wet,  though  the  sandy  soil  swallowed  each  shower 
as  it  fell.  Toward  noon  the  now  considerable  trail  split,  marking  an 
important  parting  of  the  way ; for  the  branch  to  the  left  leads  quickly 
down  to  Bellavista  on  the  bank  of  the  Maranon,  whence  rafts  descend 
to  Iquitos  and  the  rubber  country,  and  so  by  the  Amazon  to  the  At- 
lantic, while  I,  bearing  to  the  right,  plodded  on  along  the  highlands  of 
the  Andes.  In  the  dead-silent  woods  a few  decrepit  and  weather- 
blackened  huts  grew  up,  several  drowsy,  half-naked  beings  in  human 
form  gazing  languidly  after  me  from  the  doorways,  and  before  I knew 
it  I was  treading  the  streets  of  the  provincial  capital  and  “ city  ” of 
Jaen. 


243 


CHAPTER  X 


APPROACHING  INCA  LAND 

SMALL  wonder  that  the  traveler  who  has  splashed  and  waded  a 
long  week  through  the  mournful  wilderness,  living  chiefly  on 
fond  hopes  salted  with  the  anticipations  of  an  unschooled  im- 
agination, and  washed  down  with  river  water,  should  fetch  up  in  Jaen 
with  a decided  shock.  Occupying  a large  and  distinct  place  on  the 
map,  this  provincial  “ capital  ” proved  to  be  a disordered  cluster  of  a 
half-hundred  wretched,  time-blackened,  tumble-down,  thatched  huts, 
the  roofs  full  of  holes,  the  gables  often  missing,  scattered  like  aban- 
doned junk  among  the  weeds  and  bushes  of  a half-hearted  clearing  in 
the  selfsame  gloomy  forest  and  spiny  jungle  that  had  so  long  shut  me 
in.  The  barefoot,  half-clothed,  fever-yellow  inhabitants  of  mongrel 
breed  stared  curiously  from  their  mud  doorways  as  I stalked  past, 
smeared  with  dried  mud  from  head  to  foot,  sunburned,  shaggy  with 
whiskers,  and  dragging  behind  me  by  main  force  an  emaciated  donkey 
trembling  with  excitement  at  the  unwonted  sights,  or  with  fear  at  the 
unknown  dangers  of  so  vast  a metropolis.  Prom  one  hut  in  no  way 
different  from  its  neighbors  issued  the  city  school,  the  “ teacher  ” with 
a ragged  cap  on  his  head  and  a drooping  cigarette  smouldering  between 
his  lips,  to  stare  after  me  with  the  rest.  Every  building  in  town,  the 
church  included,  consisted  of  a single  mud  room  with  an  unleveled 
earth  floor,  windowless,  and  with  a small  reed  or  pole  door  giving  en- 
trance, exit,  and  such  air  and  light  as  could  force  admittance.  The 
government  palace,”  before  which  I tied  “ Cleopatra  ” to  the  of- 
ficial bamboo  flagpole  in  the  geographical  center  of  the  capital,  was 
closed.  With  a flourish  of  my  papers  I summoned  the  “ authorities  ” 
to  step  forward  and  make  themselves  known ; but  the  manoeuver 
brought  only  the  information  that  the  subprefect  was  “ away  for  a 
few  days,  but  he  ’ll  soon  be  back,  next  week,  no  mas,  or  the  week  after, 
at  any  rate.  Entra  y descansa  — come  in  and  sit  down.” 

The  gobernador  was  likewise  among  the  indefinitely  missing ; whence 
the  mantle  of  power  descended  upon  the  shoulders  of  the  alcalde. 
That  worthy  was  soon  produced,  somewhat  the  worse  for  concentrated 
cane-juice,  but  remarkable  for  at  least  two  features, — that  he  wore 

244 


APPROACHING  INCA  LAND 

what  might  still  with  some  stretch  of  veracity  be  called  shoes,  and 
alone  of  all  the  town  could  have  passed  for  a white  man,  had  he  seen 
fit  to  remove  a stringy  little  Indian  mustache.  When  he  had  read 
aloud  to  the  congregated  male  population  all  my  credentials  in  Spanish 
- — a task  not  unlike  that  of  a one-legged  man  walking  without  his 
crutches  after  spraining  his  ankle  and  suffering  a stone-bruise  — he 
requested  me  to  name  my  desires.  They  were  modest, — room,  bed, 
table,  chair,  water,  food  for  myself  and  pasture  for  the  other  one  of 
us  until  day  after  to-morrow.  Slowly  and  bit  by  bit,  but  none  the  less 
surely,  my  requirements  were  met.  A key  was  found  that  manipulated 
the  creaking  padlock  of  one  of  the  thatched  mud-caves  with  sagging 
reed  divans  around  its  walls.  A crippled  table  was  dragged  in,  and 
a squad  of  soldiers  sent  for  old  newspapers  to  cover  it.  In  due  time, 
and  with  the  assistance  of  the  entire  population  in  a house  to  house 
canvass,  a gourd  wash-basin  was  discovered,  then  a gourd  with  a hole 
in  one  end,  from  which  one  drank  and  into  which  the  half-Indian  boy 
thrust  a finger  to  carry  it,  after  filling  it  at  the  chocolate-brown  stream 
at  the  edge  of  the  town ; a chair  was  unofficially  subtracted  from  the 
government  palace  and,  last  of  all,  a four-inch  mirror  was  pinned  to 
the  mud  wall.  I had  barely  removed  the  hirsute  adornment  of  a week 
by  such  light  as  Jaen,  massed  in  and  about  the  door,  left  me,  when  a 
barefoot  female  glided  noiselessly  into  my  den  and,  announcing  herself 
the  owner,  carried  off  the  glass  as  too  precious  a possession  to  be  long 
out  of  her  sight. 

The  first  stroll  disclosed  the  hitherto  unsuspected  fact  that  several 
of  the  mud-dens  were  shops.  One  of  them  posed  as  a restaurant,  but 
its  restorative  powers  were  at  best  anemic.  Jaen  is  probably  the  hottest, 
and  certainly  the  hungriest,  provincial  capital  in  Peru.  To  retain  its 
rank  as  a “ city,”  it  fulfilled  nominally  the  test  as  a place  where  bread 
is  made, — a tiny,  soggy  bun  selling  for  the  price  of  an  American  loaf. 
Milk  and  fruit,  which  might  easily  have  been  superabundant  here, 
were  unknown  luxuries,  and  the  customary  food  of  the  populace  in- 
cluded nothing  a wellbred  dog  would  have  touched  in  any  but  a 
ravenous  state.  A dozen  of  us  without  families,  including  the  alcalde, 
were  dependent  upon  the  “ restaurant,”  and  we  agreed  upon  a fixed 
ration  of  bread  and  eggs,  the  supply  of  which  never  approached  even 
the  normal  demand.  But  the  alcalde  quickly  formed  the  habit  of 
sneaking  over  before  the  hour  set  and,  by  virtue  of  his  official  powers, 
consuming  most  of  the  provender.  To  forestall  him,  the  rest  of  us  took 
to  arriving  earlier,  until  it  grew  customary  to  appear  for  the  noonday 

245 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


meal  at  about  nine,  and  to  sit  down  to  supper  toward  three,  eyeing  each 
other  ravenously,  and  jealously  watching  the  cook’s  every  movement. 
He  who  is  accustomed  to  complain  of  the  “ high  cost  of  living  ” should 
try  the  antidote  of  a journey  down  the  Andes,  where  the  high  cost 
reigns  supreme,  without  the  living.  In  these  languid  corners  of  the 
world  where  life  is  reduced  to  its  lowest  terms  food  and  lodging  assume 
the  first  place  of  importance,  and  the  mind  is  never  free  from  these 
primitive  apprehensions ; no  sooner  does  one  eat  than  the  worry  arises 
as  to  where  the  next  meal  will  come  from,  as  each  day’s  pleasure  on 
the  road  is  tempered  by  wondering  what  hardship  the  night  will  have 
in  store. 

There  were  some  evidences  of  negro  blood  in  Jaen,  though  that  of 
the  aboriginal  Indian  tribe  of  the  region  was  universal,  in  the  percent- 
age of  one  half  to  a far  smaller  fraction  in  varying  individuals.  The 
men  wore  home-made  garments  of  the  cheapest  cotton,  patched  and 
sun-faded,  generally  no  shirt,  with  merely  a kerchief  knotted  about  the 
neck  above  the  undershirt,  and  sombreros  de  junco,  hats  woven  of  a 
species  of  swamp-grass  or  reeds,  which  a few  weeks  of  sun  and  rain 
gave  the  appearance  of  a badly  thatched  roof.  The  women  wore 
no  hats,  combed  their  raven-black  hair  flat  and  smooth,  without  adorn- 
ments, and  let  it  hang  down  their  backs  in  a single  braid.  Like  all  the 
cholas  and  half-castes  of  the  sex  in  the  Andes,  they  dragged  their  mis- 
shapen skirts  constantly  in  the  mire  of  the  streets  and  the  “ floors  ” 
of  their  huts,  and  were  habitually  even  less  cleanly  in  their  habits  than 
the  men.  The  stage  of  education  may  be  gaged  from  the  fact  that  the 
government  telegraph  operator  assured  me  I could  not  reach  Cerro 
de  Pasco  by  land,  but  must  “ cross  the  sea  ” to  Lima  and  take  the  rail- 
road from  there.  Jaen’s  chief  pastime  for  speeding  up  the  monotonous 
stretch  between  the  cradle  and  the  grave  is  the  consumption  of  the 
native  “ canazo,”  and  only  those  who  rose  early  were  likely  to  find  a 
completely  sober  man.  A sort  of  harmless  anarchy  reigned.  A man 
merry  with  cane- juice  might  sit  outside  the  mud  school-house  and  keep 
school  from  “ functioning  ” all  day  long,  without  interference.  An 
amorous  youth,  going  on  a drunken  rampage  among  the  huts  or  the 
washerwomen  on  the  banks  of  the  irrigating  ditch,  was  avoided  if 
possible,  but  was  never  forcibly  restrained.  As  is  frequent  in  tropical 
towns,  there  was  little  evidence  of  religion,  pseudo  or  otherwise,  which 
thrives  best  in  the  high,  cold  regions  of  the  mysterious  paramos.  The 
mud  church,  with  its  tower  melted  off  unevenly  at  the  top,  like  a half- 
burned'candle  in  a wind,  had  long  since  lost  its  cura,  and  served  now  as 

246 


APPROACHING  INCA  LAND 


provincial  jail,  by  the  simple  addition  of  a few  poles  set  in  adobe  across 
the  door  and  a few  languid  soldiers  lolling  in  the  general  vicinity 
whenever  they  had  no  particular  desire  to  be  somewhere  else. 

On  the  afternoon  of  my  arrival  the  rumor  floated  languidly  over 
the  town  that  the  weekly  cow  was  to  be  butchered  next  morning,  but 
it  was  denied  later  in  the  evening.  I made  the  most  of  my  day  of  lei- 
sure by  acquiring  a bar  of  native  soap,  of  the  appearance  of  a mud-pie 
and  the  scent  of  boiling  glue,  and  spending  some  two  hours  in  the 
irrigating  ditch,  stringing  across  the  main  street,  from  a telegraph  pole 
to  a rafter  of  “ my  house,”  all  the  garments  that  could  be  spared  from 
use  in  an  unexacting  society.  Nothing  was  more  certain  than  that  I 
should  start  again  at  daylight  of  the  second  morning  — until  news  ar- 
rived that  the  river  eighteen  miles  south  was  impassable  until  the 
waters  receded.  It  was  evident,  too,  that  I must  deny  myself  the  com- 
panionship of  “ Cleopatra.”  She  hung  wilted  and  dejected  in  the 
town  pasture,  and  at  best  there  was  no  hope  that  she  would  last  many 
days  further,  even  if  there  were  any  means  of  getting  her  across  the 
swollen  river.  I accepted  the  alcalde’s  offer  of  $3  for  the  animal  and 
her  “ furniture,”  and  felt  a glow  of  satisfaction,  tempered  with  regret 
at  the  loss  of  a good  companion,  for  all  her  faults,  that  I should  no 
longer  have  to  drag  my  feet  behind  me  at  her  snail’s  pace,  and  be  de- 
pendent on  my  right  arm  for  advancement. 

On  the  morning  I should  have  started,  the  rumor  again  ran  riot 
that  the  town  was  going  to  pelar  un  res — “peel  a beef.”  This  time 
matters  went  so  far  as  to  lead  the  octogenarian  victim  out  into  the  main 
street,  where  the  population  gathered  in  an  attitude  of  anticipation,  a 
dozen  or  more  armed  with  home-made  axes  and  knives,  the  rest  with 
pots  and  gourds.  For  a long  time  the  languid  hubbub  of  some  dis- 
cussion rose  and  fell  about  the  downcast  animal.  Then  gradually  the 
gathering  disintegrated  and  scattered  to  its  huts,  each  pausing  at  sight 
of  a face,  to  drone  in  that  singularly  indifferent  monotone  of  the 
tropics,  “ No  hay  carne  hoy  ” — (there  is  no  meat  to-day).  Some  mis- 
anthropist, an  agent  of  a neighboring  hacienda,  it  turned  out,  had 
offered  $9  for  the  animal,  and  Jaen  did  not  feel  justified  in  squander- 
ing any  such  fortune  for  mere  food.  My  rosy  dream  of  again  tasting 
fresh  meat  and  of  carrying  supplies  on  my  journey  was  once  more 
rudely  dissipated. 

The  east  was  blushing  from  the  first  kiss  of  the  bold,  tropical  sun 
when  I sallied  forth  on  the  morning  I had  concluded  to  start,  river  or 
no  river,  and  went  to  wake  up  the  “ restaurant  ” keeper,  sleeping  on  his 

247 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


dining-table  with  the  precious  bread-box  under  his  head.  The  alcalde 
appeared  almost  at  the  same  instant  from  the  direction  of  the  irrigation 
ditch,  his  towel  about  his  neck.  He  greeted  me  with  forced  courtesy. 
His  solemn  promise  to  arrange  to  have  my  baggage  transported  to  the 
river  in  consideration  for  the  low  price  at  which  he  had  acquired 
“ Cleopatra  ” had  gone  the  way  of  most  South  American  promises  — 
into  thin  air.  Now  I reminded  him  of  it,  he  would  order  a soldier  to 
accompany  me  at  once.  The  earth  swung  a long  way  eastward  on  its 
axis  without  any  other  sign  of  activity.  Then  some  one  came  to  say 
that  a soldier  would  not  be  sent,  because  Anastasio  Centurion,  return- 
ing to  his  “ Hacienda  Algarrobo  ” forthwith,  would  be  delighted  to 
carry  my  belongings  on  his  mule.  An  hour  later  he  declined  to  carry 
them,  then  he  was  prevailed  upon  by  his  compadre,  the  lieutenant- 
governor,  to  renew  his  offer ; then  he  again  concluded  the  weight  was 
too  great,  and  finally  sent  an  urchin  for  my  saddle-bags.  Before  they 
were  loaded,  however,  a dispute  broke  out  over  the  ownership  of  a 
“ silver  ” spur  that  had  been  picked  up  in  the  sand  of  the  main  street, 
and  the  town  followed  the  alcalde  to  the  mud  hut  that  served  as  court 
of  justice.  It  was  also  the  city  bakery,  and  the  wife  of  the  justice, 
who  had  put  off  baking  the  morning  before,  and  was  not  yet  mixing 
the  dough,  ceded  a corner  of  the  kitchen  table  to  the  court,  which  in 
the  course  of  an  hour  settled  the  case  in  the  customary  Latin-American 
way  — by  deciding  that  the  disputed  property  should  remain  “ in  the 
hands  of  justice.” 

A soldier  was  at  length  sent  to  round  up  one  of  the  donkeys  grazing 
in  the  main  plaza.  Gradually  the  disgusted  animal  was  fitted  with  my 
former  donkey-furniture,  amid  the  contrary  suggestions  of  the  pop- 
ulace, and  the  alcalde  furnished  me  an  order  to  the  ferrymen  at  the 
river  to  set  me  across  in  the  name  of  the  government  — and  to  return 
donkey  and  aparejo.  A winding,  narrow,  stony  path,  that  wet  its  feet 
at  the  very  outset,  squirmed  away  through  the  desert-like  forest. 
“ Down  there,”  said  Anastasio,  wrapped  gloomily  in  his  maroon 
poncho  and  viciously  kicking  the  spur  on  one  bare  heel  into  the  side 
of  his  heavily-laden  animal,  “ is  the  camino  real,  pero  da  mucha  vuelta.” 
How  it  could  “ give  more  turns  ” than  the  one  we  were  following,  it 
was  hard  to  imagine.  My  pack-animal  this  time  was  a matron  of 
forty,  comparatively  speaking,  and  correspondingly  set  in  her  ways. 
Within  the  first  mile  “ se  me  escapo,”  as  the  natives  have  it ; that  is, 
she  suddenly  bolted  into  the  thorny  wilderness  at  the  first  suggestion 
of  an  opening,  and  left  me  dripping  with  sweat  and  speckled  with  the 

248 


A woman  of  the  jungles  of  Jaen  preparing  me  the  first  meal  in  days  at  the  typical  Ecuadorian 
cook-stove.  She  declined  to  pose  for  her  picture  and  is  watching  me  dust  the  kodak 


Peruvian  prisoners  earn  their  own  livelihood  by  weaving  hats,  spinning  yarn,  and  the  like. 
As  in  the  debtors’  prisons  of  Dickens’  day,  the  whole  family  may  go  to  jail  to 
live  with  the  imprisoned  head  of  the  household 


APPROACHING  INCA  LAND 


blood  of  a dozen  superficial  lacerations  before  I again  laid  hands  on 
her  in  an  impassable  clump  of  brambles  and  cactus.  Anastasio  tied 
her  tow-rope  to  his  saddle,  and  for  an  hour  or  so  she  seemed  completely 
resigned  to  her  fate.  But  evidently  there  is  no  trusting  the  sex  at  that 
age.  No  sooner  was  she  paroled  than  she  bolted  again,  and  led  me  a 
skin-gashing  chase  of  several  miles  through  a wild  and  waterless 
solitude.  Yet,  after  all,  manipulating  a donkey  is  a splendid  ap- 
prenticeship for  dealing  with  Latin- Americans ; no  better  training 
could  be  suggested  for  the  prospective  salesman  south  of  the  Rio 
Grande. 

The  going  ranged  from  qucbradita  to  muy  quebrada,  now  along  the 
stony  bed  of  a meandering  “ river,”  yesterday  all  but  impassable,  to- 
day so  bone  dry  there  was  only  a bit  of  running  mud  to  quench  the 
thirst;  now  over  a sharp  knoll  bristling  with  jagged,  loose  stones. 
At  red-hot  noon  we  reached  the  Huancabamba  river,  now  grown 
to  man’s  estate,  where  it  swings  around  to  join  the  Maranon  and 
divides  the  never-to-be-forgotten  Province  of  Jaen  from  that  of  Cu- 
tervo.  A laborious  two  hours  up  it  brought  us  to  the  long-heralded 
Puerto  Sauce,  where  the  government  maintains  a “ ferry,” — five  small 
logs  bound  together  with  vines  and  manned  by  three  balseros  housed 
in  two  reed-kennels.  Here  we  squatted  out  the  day,  watching  the 
coffee-colored  stream  race  by  on  its  long  journey  to  the  Atlantic  with 
all  the  impetuosity  of  the  rainy  season.  The  government  chasqui  had 
been  sitting  here  nearly  a week,  his  mail-sacks  stacked  and  his  horse 
tethered  close  at  hand.  Only  out  on  the  extreme  edge  of  the  bank, 
where  an  occasional  breath  of  tepid  breeze  tempered  the  lead-heavy 
heat  and  thinned  the  swarms  of  stinging  insects,  was  life  endurable. 
My  skin  was  a patchwork  of  mementoes  of  all  the  minute  fauna  of  the 
past  week,  and  an  itching  like  the  constant  prick  of  myriad  red-hot 
needles  was  relieved  only  briefly  by  each  dip  in  the  stream.  During 
one  of  them  I advanced  well  into  the  river,  and  it  seemed  I could  have 
crossed  it ; that  even  the  Peruvians  might  have  made  the  passage,  had 
they  male  blood  in  their  veins.  But  then,  had  they  been  men  they 
would  long  since  have  built  a bridge.  All  through  the  night  there  kept 
running  through  my  head,  amid  the  sweep  of  the  waters,  that  illuminat- 
ing remark  of  “ Kim,”  “ A sahib  is  always  tied  to  his  baggage  ” ; and 
in  my  half-conscious  condition  I resolved  when  morning  broke  to  cast 
away  all  but  a loin-cloth  and  a hat,  and  travel  henceforth  in  comfort 
al  uso  del  pais.  But,  alas,  the  least  formal  of  us  cannot  rid  himself  of 
all  the  adjuncts  of  civilization ; and  there  was  photography,  to  say  noth- 

249 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


ing  of  food  and  covering  for  the  highlands  ahead,  to  be  considered. 
When  dawn  turned  its  matter-of-fact  light  upon  the  scene,  the  dream 
quickly  faded  and  I settled  down  to  watch  another  day  drag  by  into 
the  past  tense  beside  the  racing  brown  waters  of  the  Huancabamba. 
The  feeling  was  rampant  that  nature  had  played  me  a scurvy  trick.  I 
had  bargained  on  following  the  cool  and  pleasant  crest  of  the  Andes, 
and  they  had  crumbled  away  beneath  me  and  forced  upon  me  this  un- 
sought experience  of  the  tropics. 

Not  until  the  morning  of  the  third  day  did  the  balseros  conclude  to 
attempt  to  pass  over  the  “ government  people,” — the  mail-man  and  this 
impatient  gringo  with  the  official  order  from  the  alcalde.  The  raft 
had  been  dragged  well  up-stream,  where  we  waded  to  it  through  brist- 
ling jungle  and  knee-deep  mud.  The  chasqui’s  horse,  long  experienced 
in  these  matters  from  years  of  carrying  the  mails  over  this  route,  was 
driven  in  and  forced  to  swim  to  a sand-bar  well  out  in  the  stream.  For 
a long  time  the  animal  stood  like  a prisoner  at  bay  against  the  shout- 
ing and  stoning  and  shaking  of  cudgels  of  those  on  the  bank,  but  at 
length,  seeing  no  other  escape,  it  set  out  to  attempt  the  main  branch. 
Its  brute  instinct  would  have  proved  a better  guide  than  the  opinions  of 
more  rational  beings.  Struggling  until  its  snorting  echoed  back  from 
the  surrounding  jungle,  it  fought  the  brown,  racing  waters,  gradually 
nearing  the  further  bank,  yet  swept  even  more  swiftly  along  by  the 
inexorable  stream,  amid  foam-caps  from  the  rocky  passes  above, 
strained  savagely  to  reach  the  strip  of  beach  that  served  as  landing- 
place  until,  swept  past  it  without  gaining  a footing,  it  seemed  suddenly 
to  give  up  in  despair,  and  only  its  head,  swinging  slowly  round  and 
round  with  the  current,  was  seen  a short  minute  more,  tiny  against 
the  race  of  the  yellower  waters,  before  it  swept  on  out  of  sight  down 
the  jungle- walled  torrent. 

The  chasqui  gazed  after  the  lost  animal  for  a long  moment,  shrugged 
his  shoulders  with  the  resigned  “ Vaya!”  of  a confirmed  fatalist,  and 
took  his  seat  beside  me  on  our  baggage,  tied  securely  near  the  back 
of  the  frail  craft.  The  three  brown  balseros,  naked  but  for  palm-leaf 
hats  and  a strip  of  rag  between  their  legs,  each  crossed  himself  elabo- 
rately, and  took  a deep  draught  at  Anastasio’s  quart  bottle  of  canazo. 
Then  they  pointed  the  nose  of  the  raft  up-stream,  pushed  off,  snatched 
up  their  clumsy  paddles  with  a hoarse  imploration  to  the  Virgin,  and 
fought  for  dear  life  and  the  sand-bar.  This  gained,  we  disembarked 
and  manoeuvered  to  the  further  side,  then  pushed  off  into  the  main 
stream.  It  snatched  at  us  like  some  greedy  monster.  The  sand-bar 

250 


APPROACHING  INCA  LAND 


raced  away  up-stream  at  express  speed,  the  further  bank  sped  past  like 
a blurred  cinematograph  ribbon,  the  paddlers,  urged  on  by  their  own 
and  the  mail-man’s  raucous  shouts  and  imprecations,  battled  as  with 
some  mortal  enemy,  stabbing  their  paddles  in  swift,  breathless  succes- 
sion into  the  brown  stream,  and  following  each  dig  with  a savage  jerk 
that  tore  the  wound  wide  open  and  brought  out  the  lean  muscles  be- 
neath their  dingy  skins  like  steel  cables  under  leather  coverings.  The 
rules  of  caste  are  more  important  than  life  itself  in  South  America, 
and  both  the  mail-man  and  I had  been  refused  paddles.  Relentlessly 
the  further  shore  galloped  by.  The  bit  of  clearing  required  for  land- 
ing approached,  beckoned  to  us  tantalizingly,  flashed  on,  and  the  raft 
sped  swiftly  after  the  lost  horse.  The  balseros,  abetted  by  the  chasqui, 
increased  their  efforts  to  a screaming  uproar,  in  which  I caught  here 
and  there  a fragmentary  “ ’nta  Virgen  . . . ’yuda ! ” Fortunately  they 
did  not  put  all  their  trust  in  superhuman  assistance,  and  their  paddles 
tore  at  the  stream  with  a viciousness  that  drenched  us  with  its  after- 
math.  Bit  by  bit  we  strained  nearer  the  hurrying  wall  of  verdure. 
Every  lunge  seemed  to  lift  the  paddlers  into  the  air ; the  cords  on  their 
necks  stood  out  like  creepers  on  a forest  tree ; their  yells,  hoarse  and 
savage  enough  to  have  frightened  off  any  malignant  spirit  of  the 
waters,  came  strained  and  broken  now,  from  lack  of  breath.  Now  we 
could  all  but  touch  the  racing  forest-wall.  I snatched  in  vain  at  a 
sapling  bowing  its  head  in  the  stream.  With  a last  faint  gasp  and  a 
spent  stroke,  the  balseros  dropped  their  paddles  on  the  raft,  and  all  five 
of  us  grasped  at  the  vegetation  that  tore  and  lacerated  us  in  its  struggle 
to  escape  our  desperate  embrace.  When  we  had  each  gathered  an 
armful  of  it,  we  clung  so  stoutly  to  this  last  hold  to  earth  that  the  raft 
was  all  but  swept  from  under  us  before  we  swung  it  up  into  a bit  of 
cove,  where  the  balseros,  falling  at  once  into  their  racial  apathy, 
drooped  like  wilted  rags  at  the  bow,  while  one  of  them  panted  weakly, 
“ A little  more,  senores,  and  we  were  gone  sin  noticias.” 

As  lazily  as  they  had  been  energetic  in  the  crossing,  the  ferry-men 
coaxed  the  raft  up  along  the  edge  of  the  forest  to  the  little  clearing, 
where  I swung  my  saddle-bags  over  a shoulder,  waded  to  dry  land 
and  plodded  on  along  the  blazing  hot  bank  of  the  Huancabamba. 
Slowly  my  shadow  crawled  from  under  my  feet.  In  this  sweltering 
desert  valley,  now  staggering  through  hot  sand  and  a dwarf  vegetation 
savage  with  thorns,  now  clambering  constantly  over  steep  headlands 
that  broke  into  cliffs  at  the  river’s  edge  and  stumbling  down  again 
through  veritable  quarries  of  loose  stones,  my  burden,  augmented  with 

251 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


chancaca,  a sack  of  rice  and  a roll  of  sun-dried  beef,  as  well  as  the 
lead-heavy  tropical  sun  that  seemed  to  lean  physically  on  my  shoul- 
ders, became  unbearable.  I resolved  to  pitch  camp  in  the  first  open 
space  and  wait,  till  doomsday  if  necessary,  for  some  pack-train  sus- 
ceptible to  the  glitter  of  silver  coins.  Puerto  Sauce  was  probably  not 
more  than  seven  miles  behind  me  when  I found,  between  trail  and  river, 
a narrow  sand-strip  sloping  down  to  the  racing  brown  waters  and 
backed  by  a barren,  stony  cliff-face  over  which  the  “ road  ” prom- 
ised to  bring  out  in  relief  against  the  > turqui  sky  anyone  who  might 
pass  my  way. 

Grass  could  not  find  sustenance  on  this  sun-baked  spot,  but  centi- 
pedes and  a score  of  other  venomous  things  might  exist.  Scattered 
along  the  bank  were  many  sapling  poles,  the  wreckage,  evidently,  of 
some  hut  that  had  been  swept  here  by  the  raging  river.  I gathered  an 
armful  of  these  and  laid  their  ends  on  two  small  logs,  covered  them 
with  such  brush  and  branches  as  were  without  thorns,  and  had  a far 
more  comfortable  couch  than  the  wealthiest  hacendado  of  the  region. 
Over  me  hung  a wild  lemon-tree,  the  fruit  of  which  made  the  yellow 
Huancabamba  more  nearly  drinkable.  About  its  trunk,  within  instant 
reach,  I strapped  my  revolver,  and  lay  down  almost  in  the  “ royal  high- 
way,” fully  prepared  for  anything  except  a sudden  burst  of  rain. 
Across  the  river  in  dense,  half-cultivated,  greener  jungle  were  the  huts 
of  several  natives ; but  they  might  as  well  have  been  in  another  world, 
for  I could  not  have  heard  a whisper  above  the  roar  of  the  Huanca- 
bamba had  they  stood  on  the  opposite  bank  screaming  across  at  me.  I 
possessed  a maltreated  copy  of  Prescott,  and  there  is  great  compensa- 
tion for  the  hardships  of  the  trail  in  golden  moments  snatched  like 
this ; for  nowhere  does  the  mind  grip  the  printed  page  so  firmly  as  at 
the  end  of  a day  on  the  road,  after  long  turning  the  leaves  of  no  other 
page  than  nature’s. 

The  afternoon  passed,  faded  to  a violent  sunset,  and  blackened  into 
night,  without  a human  sight  or  sound.  I took  another  swim,  careful 
not  to  lose  my  grasp  on  the  shore,  and  turned  my  lounge  into  a bed. 
There  had  been  many  rumors  of  bears  and  “ tigers  ” in  these  parts. 
The  real  peril  was  the  incitement  to  suicide  caused  by  the  swarming 
insect  life  whenever  the  breeze  failed  for  an  instant.  In  my  dreams 
the  roar  of  the  Huancabamba  turned  to  that  of  New  York,  and  I 
fancied  I had  suddenly  left  off  my  journey  down  the  Andes  to  run 
home  for  a single  day,  at  the  end  of  which  I should  take  up  my  task 
where  I had  left  off. 


252 


APPROACHING  INCA  LAND 


When  dawn  awoke  me  I refused  to  rise.  But  hour  after  hour  passed 
without  a break  in  the  drear  monotony  of  the  arid  landscape.  In  mid- 
morning patience  exploded  and,  throwing  my  load  over  a shoulder,  I 
toiled  on.  When,  at  the  end  of  some  fifteen  miles,  my  legs  refused  to 
push  me  further,  I struggled  through  the  jungle  to  the  river-bank;  but 
there  was  not  a cleared  space  sufficient  to  sit  on,  much  less  to  lie  down 
in.  By  wading  chest-deep  I reached  the  breezy  nose  of  an  island  in  the 
Huancabamba,  and  made  my  bed  on  the  damp  beach-sand.  But  I 
had  chosen  poorly,  if  choice  it  might  be  called.  Without  even  leaves 
to  spread  under  me,  the  night  was  one  of  unmitigated  torture.  My- 
riads of  crawling,  stinging  tropical  life  made  my  entire  frame  a pas- 
ture and  playground,  and  at  best  I got  only  a few  half-conscious 
snatches  of  sleep,  troubled  with  the  threatening  rumble  of  the  river. 
For  safety’s  sake  I had  hung  many  of  my  belongings  in  the  branches 
of  trees ; but  not  enough  of  them.  Daylight  showed  a populous 
colony  of  enormous  black  ants  in  possession  of  all  that  lay  on  the 
ground.  They  had  not  only  eaten  to  the  last  crumb  the  chancaca  I 
had  lugged  for  two  blazing  days,  and  left  me  barely  a spoonful  of  rice 
for  breakfast,  but  they  had  all  but  destroyed  the  home-made  cover 
of  my  kodak,  had  decorated  my  hat  with  a fringe,  and  had  bitten  into 
a dozen  pieces  my  auto-photographic  bulb,  scattering  all  the  vicinity 
with  crumbs  of  red  rubber. 

Another  lone  day  we  struggled  up-stream.  I say  we, — that  is,  my- 
self and  I;  for  — a point  for  psychologists  — since  taking  up  my  own 
load  again  I could  not  rid  myself  of  the  fancy  that  I was  two  dis- 
tinct persons,  one  of  whom  was  forcing  the  other  to  make  the  journey. 
In  the  night  I often  started  up  fancying  the  other  fellow  — the  one 
who  did  the  walking  and  carried  the  load  — had  escaped.  Could  he 
know  the  truth  beforehand,  no  sane  man  would  sentence  himself  to 
tramp  this  route  of  the  Andes,  to  suffer  almost  incessant  hardships,  the 
monotony  of  the  same  experiences  over  and  over  again,  the  dreary  in- 
tercourse with  a people  so  stupid,  so  low  of  intelligence  that  long  con- 
tact with  their  childish  minds  brings  with  it  the  danger  of  one’s  own 
faculties  turning  childish,  like  that  of  a lifetime  of  school-teaching. 
Only  the  American  habit  of  carrying  out  to  the  bitter  end  a plan  once 
made  could  force  him  on. 

Late  the  next  morning  the  most  exciting  event  of  several  days  hap- 
pened,— I met  a human  being.  He  was  lolling  before  a slatternly  hut 
of  reeds,  inside  which  a half-caste  woman  squatted  on  the  earth  peeling 
camotcs.  On  such  a journey  the  civilized  traveler  unconsciously  builds 

253 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


up  a certain  pity  for  himself  which  he  feels  should  be  shared 
by  others.  But  he  is  sure  of  a rude  awakening  among  these  clod-like 
inhabitants  of  the  wilderness.  Should  a living  skeleton  crawl  into  an 
Andean  hut  announcing  he  had  not  tasted  food  for  a fortnight,  had 
seven  species  of  tropical  fever,  and  had  been  bitten  by  a baker’s  dozen 
of  venomous  serpents,  the  greeting  would  be  the  same  motionless,  in- 
different grunt  and  drowsily  mumbled  “ Vaya  ! ” with  which  this  female 
acknowledged  my  presence.  No  offer  of  money  would  have  brought 
her  to  her  feet,  much  less  have  induced  her  to  cook  one  of  the  chickens 
— - or  even  yellow  curs  — that  overran  the  place.  As  I picked  up  my 
burden  in  disgust,  however,  she  murmured  through  her  half-closed 
lips,  “ Se  ira  uste‘  almorzando?  ” — in  other  words  that  I might  wait,  if 
I chose,  to  partake  of  the  camote  stew  she  was  lazily  concocting 
over  the  stick  fire  in  the  center  of  the  floor.  On  the  surface  this 
stereotyped  invitation  looks  like  genuine  hospitality.  At  bottom  it  is 
less  so  than  a habit,  tinged  with  superstition  and  fear  of  malignant 
spirits,  and  above  all  the  impossibility  of  an  uninitiative  race  daring 
to,  or  even  thinking  of  varying  a custom  of  all  their  known  world.  It 
was  no  time  to  stand  on  my  dignity,  however,  even  had  the  foodless 
days  behind  left  me  any  such  support,  and  I sat  down  again.  A rav- 
enous two  hours  dragged  by  before  the  mess  of  native  roots  and 
herbs  met  the  approval  of  the  expressionless  female,  who  tasted  a 
wooden  spoonful  of  it  now  and  then  and  tossed  the  residue  back 
into  the  kettle.  Several  peons  had  drifted  in,  genuine  human  clods, 
apparently  as  devoid  of  intelligence  as  the  hogs  rooting  about  under 
their  hoofed  feet,  and  gathered  about  a flat  log  raised  a bit  above  the 
earth.  With  a steaming  calabash  of  the  tasteless,  red-hot  stew  be- 
fore each  of  us,  and  a single  bowl  of  mote  mixed  with  bits  of  pork 
rind  into  which  all  shovelled  at  once,  we  finished  the  meal  in  utter 
silence.  Then  the  first  peon,  wiping  his  horny  hand  across  his  mouth 
with  a disgusting  sucking  sound,  mumbled  “ Dios  se  lo  pagara,”  a 
formula  repeated  by  each  as  we  rose  to  our  feet.  However  much  he 
may  prefer  to  liquidate  the  matter  himself,  rather  than  to  leave  it  to  so 
uncertain  and  unindebted  a source,  this  “ God  will  pay  you  for  it,”  is 
the  only  return  the  traveler  who  sits  in  at  their  tasteless  repasts  can 
force  upon  these  mongrel  people  of  the  Andean  wilderness. 

How  far  out  of  my  course  I had  mounted  the  Huancabamba  when  I 
picked  up  a rock-strewn  tributary  along  the  cliff-face,  only  a pro- 
fessional geographer  could  say.  Through  the  hot-lands  of  northern 
Peru  direction  yields  to  the  accidents  of  nature,  and  Jaen  had  been  as 

254 


APPROACHING  INCA  LAND 


far  east  of  a line  due  southward  as  Ayavaca  had  been  to  the  west. 
When  early  sunset  fell  in  the  bottom  of  the  deep  valley,  I had 
mounted  several  hundred  feet  above  the  level  of  the  Huancabamba,  and 
with  a welcome  coolness  came  more  human  manners,  heralding  the 
highlands  again.  Both  Fructuoso  Carrera  and  his  far  younger,  though 
no  less  cheery  wife,  treated  me  more  like  a prodigal  son  than  as  an  im- 
portunate guest  who  had  fallen  upon  them  out  of  the  unknown. 
Amid  the  culinary  operations  suited  to  my  case  they  gave  me  in  detail 
the  recipe  of  the  choclo  tandas — Quichua  bread,  probably  used  before 
the  Conquest  — that  finally  rounded  off  our  repast  late  in  the  evening. 
For  the  benefit  of  housewives  permit  me  to  pass  on  the  information: 

Cut  off  the  kernels  of  green  corn  while  still  small  and  fairly  soft. 
Crush  them  to  a pulp  — under  a round  stone  on  a broad  flat  one  out 
beneath  the  thatched  eaves,  if  it  is  desired  to  keep  the  local  color  intact 
— sprinkling  water  lightly  on  the  mass  from  time  to  time.  When  the 
whole  has  been  reduced  to  a somewhat  adhesive  dough,  wrap  in  corn- 
husks  rolls  of  the  stuff  about  the  size  and  shape  of  an  ear  of  corn 
and  tie  with  strips  of  husk.  Sit  down  on  the  earth  floor  in  a corner  of 
the  hut  — driving  off  the  persistent  guinea-pigs  with  any  weapon 
at  hand  — and  drop  these  packages  one  by  one  into  a kettle  of  boiling 
water  supported  by  three  stones.  Let  boil  from  twenty  minutes  to  a 
half  hour  — depending  on  the  energy  with  which  fagots  have  been 
gathered  during  the  day  — taking  care  that  none  of  the  gaunt  curs 
prowling  about  between  the  legs  of  the  cook  and  through  other  un- 
expected openings  thrust  their  noses  into  the  kettle,  as  they  would  be 
sure  to  be  burned.  Those  who  succeed  in  beginning  the  task  while 
daylight  still  lingers  should  also  beware  any  of  the  family  chickens 
climbing  to  a convenient  shoulder  and  springing  into  the  pot,  as  this 
would  result,  not  in  choclo  tanda,  but  in  choclo  tanda  con  gallina,  which 
is  a far  more  expensive  dish.  Zest  is  added  by  a successful  attempt 
surreptitiously  to  get  into  one’s  saddle-bags  a couple  of  the  choclo 
tandas  for  the  land  of  starvation  that  is  expected  ahead. 

Several  times  during  the  night  I descended  to  alleviate  my  insect- 
bitten  skin  by  a plunge  in  the  clear,  cold  mountain  stream  that  sounds 
in  the  Carrera  family  ears  365  days  a year.  In  the  morning  I was 
forced  to  dress  under  my  poncho,  with  far  less  convenience  than  in 
an  upper  Pullman  berth ; for  la  senora  was  already  grinding  coffee  for 
my  desayuno  on  the  flat  stone  under  the  eaves  beside  me.  To  my 
diplomatically  framed  question  as  to  what  I owed  him,  Don  Fructuoso 
replied : 


255 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


“For  what  should  you  owe  us  anything?” 

All  that  day  the  trail,  wandering  back  and  forth  across  the  rock- 
boiling “ river,”  first  by  little  thatched  pachachacas,  or  earth-covered 
pole-bridges,  then,  as  the  stream  dwindled,  by  precarious  stepping- 
stones,  climbed  ever  higher,  at  times  through  stretches  of  mud  where 
dense  overhanging  forests  had  retained  the  rainfall.  Mankind  grew 
more  frequent  in  this  more  habitable,  rising  world.  Thatched  cottages 
were  tucked  away  here  and  there  in  forty-five-degree  patches  of 
bananas  and  coffee,  and  the  pilfering  of  the  tandas  to  weigh  down  my 
load  proved  an  entirely  gratuitous  felony. 

The  very  air  of  Tablabamba,  where  I slept  on  dried  cane-pulp  in  an 
unwalled  trapiche  hung  well  up  the  side  of  the  new  constricted  valley, 
as  humid  and  green  as  Jaen  Province  had  been  desert-brown  and 
arid,  teemed  with  stories  of  robbers  and  assassins  among  the  moun- 
tain defiles  ahead.  The  only  visible  danger  I encountered,  however, 
was  the  notorious  “ Sal-si-puedes  — Climb  it  if  you  can,”  the  terrors 
of  which  had  grown  daily  more  persistent  for  a fortnight  past.  This 
was  one  of  those  endless  zigzags  by  which  Andean  trails  climb  from 
one  river  system,  when  near  its  source,  to  another,  revealing  its  ne- 
farious purpose  only  bit  by  bit,  and  subtly  enticing  the  traveler  ever  up- 
ward in  an  undertaking  he  might  not  have  the  courage  to  face  as  a 
whole.  A rut  piled  full  of  loose  rocks,  down  which  trickled  enough 
water  to  suggest  what  the  climb  might  have  been  on  a rainy  day, 
carried  me  into  the  very  sky  above  and,  taking  there  new  foothold, 
scaled  doggedly  on  into  the  “ realms  of  eternal  silence  ” where  even 
birds  were  no  longer  heard  and  sturdy,  squat  trees,  sighing  fitfully  as  if 
struggling  for  breath,  at  length  gave  up  in  despair  and  abandoned  the 
scene  to  huge,  black  rocks  protruding  from  a soil  that  gave  sustenance 
only  to  the  dead-brown  ichu-grass  of  Andean  heights.  “ Hay  mucho 
silencio  y mucho  matador,”  my  host  of  the  night  had  mumbled  lu- 
gubriously, but  I was  aware  only  of  the  music  of  the  wind  and  the 
joyful  realization  that  the  broken  mountains  had  gathered  themselves 
together  again  under  my  feet  and  raised  me  once  more  to  my  accus- 
tomed temperate  zone.  By  cold  noonday  a tumbled,  blue  world  lay 
about  and  below  me,  only  an  insignificant  dent  in  it  representing  that 
overheated  hell  locally  known  as  the  Province  of  Jaen.  Like  life  it- 
self, what  had  seemed  at  its  base  a mighty  climb  proved  here  at  the 
top  to  have  been  only  an  insignificant  little  knoll  down  in  the  valley, 
and  only  when  one  had  reached  the  real  summit,  and  could  look  back 

256 


e 


magnificent  highland  valleys  of  the  Andes 


APPROACHING  INCA  LAND 


upon  the  region  as  a whole  after  all  was  accomplished,  did  each  little 
struggle  and  petty  suffering  assume  its  correct  proportion. 

Another  step  forward,  and  before  my  glad  eyes  spread  one  of  those 
broad,  green  interandean  valleys,  backed  by  serrated  black  ranges, 
their  brows  wrinkled  and  furrowed  with  age,  the  clouds  trailing  their 
purple  shadows  across  a panorama  of  little  cultivated  valleys,  into 
which  I descended  from  the  unconscionable  summit  by  a natural  stair- 
way. The  blue-gray  peaks  turned  to  lilac  in  the  last  rays  of  the  chill 
highland  sun,  then  faded  away  into  the  luminous  sky  of  night  as  the 
mountain  cold  settled  down  like  an  icy  poncho,  and  with  dusk  I tramped 
through  a long  adobe  street  into  the  central  plaza  of  Cutervo. 

My  legs  seemed  to  have  pushed  me  again  into  the  outskirts  of 
civilization.  Not  only  did  the  subprefect  drive  off  of  his  own  initia- 
tive the  open-mouthed  throng  that  gathered  about  his  door,  rather  than 
read  my  papers  aloud  to  them,  but  here  at  last  was  a Peruvian  town 
that  actually  recognized  the  existence  of  strangers  with  appetites,  and 
a large  adobe  hut  publicly  admitted  itself  a fonda.  Cutervo  was,  in 
reality,  monotonously  like  any  other  town  of  the  Sierra.  To  one  com- 
ing upon  it  out  of  the  trackless  wilderness,  however,  it  seemed  at  first 
sight  a place  of  mighty  importance,  and  only  gradually  dwindled  to  its 
true  proportions.  Like  a man  just  returned  from  long  months  in  the 
polar  ice,  I had  an  all  but  irresistible  desire  to  rush  in  and  buy  every- 
thing in  sight,  as  I wandered  past  its  long  line  of  open  shop-doors.  The 
capital  of  a department  recently  cut  off  from  the  neighboring  one  of 
Chota,  it  was  the  first  place  in  Peru  where  any  appreciable  number  of 
the  inhabitants  could  unreservedly  be  called  white,  and  boasted  the 
first  specimens  of  beauty  among  the  fair  sex.  Even  the  Lima  news- 
papers were  there,  to  give  me  a skeleton  sketch  of  the  activities  of  a 
half-forgotten  world. 

There  is  a reserve  of  strength  in  the  human  body  which  few  suspect 
until  they  tax  it  in  an  emergency ; but  it  is  only  after  recovery  that  the 
traveler  through  the  rough  places  of  the  earth  realizes  how  weak  he 
has  gradually  become  from  hardships  and  lack  of  real  nourishment. 
The  envigorating  air  of  the  temperate  zone  and  the  meat  of  Cutervo’s 
fonda,  however,  had  soon  given  me  new  energy,  and  seemed  to  have  re- 
duced to  half  the  weight  of  my  load.  Hope,  brutally  felled  to  earth, 
ever  crawls  dizzily  to  its  feet  again.  I could  no  more  rid  myself  of  the 
fond  dream  of  some  day  ceasing  to  stagger  under  my  own  baggage 
than  a leper  can  shake  off  his  affliction.  Yet  the  solemn  promise  of  the 

257 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


ruler  of  Cutervo  to  furnish  me  a carrier  resulted  only  in  a lost  day, 
and  I struck  off  across  the  rolling  mountains  and  valleys  beyond,  con- 
vinced at  last,  so  I fancied,  that  I should  dream  no  longer.  So  per- 
sistent had  been  the  promise  of  foul  play  on  this  day’s  route  that,  de- 
spite a lifetime  of  disappointments,  I could  not  but  peer  hopefully  into 
the  many  splendid  lurking-places  of  the  wild,  rock-strewn  upland  I 
followed  in  utter  solitude  all  the  gorgeous  day  from  Cutervo  to  Chota, 
the  next  provincial  capital.  Only  once  did  I catch  sight  of  fellow- 
beings.  A group  of  arrieros  with  laden  asses  paused  dubiously  near 
the  top  of  the  range  where  they  caught  the  first  glimpse  of  me,  then 
ventured  forward  and  halted  to  ask  anxiously : 

“Are  the  robbers  not  attacking  this  morning?” 

My  answer  they  greeted  with  a fervent  “ Ave  Maria  Purisima ! ” 
and,  crossing  themselves  ostentatiously,  that  the  saints  should  not  by 
any  chance  overlook  their  devotion,  pushed  hurriedly  on  toward  Cu- 
tervo. 

Early  in  the  afternoon  I came  out  on  the  upper  edge  of  an  enor- 
mous, wide-spread  valley  just  across  which,  in  the  lap  of  a rolling 
plain  sloping  toward  me  and  the  hair-like  winding  river  at  its  bottom, 
lay  the  end  of  the  day’s  journey, — Chota;  a tiny,  dull-red  patch  in  a 
green-brown  immensity  of  sun-flooded  world,  the  two  towers  of  its  not 
too  conspicuous  church  pin-pricking  the  horizon.  In  the  transparent 
air  of  the  highlands  it  seemed  at  most  a short  two  hours  away.  In 
reality  I had  not  in  that  time  picked  my  stony  way  to  the  bottom  of 
the  rock-scarred  valley,  and  it  was  long  after  night  had  cast  its  black 
poncho  over  all  the  world  that  I stumbled  at  last  into  the  elusive  town. 

Chota,  “ 8000  feet,  4000  inhabitants,  3000  doors  ” — and  no  windows, 
nearly  as  cold  as  Quito,  is  a provincial  capital  with  well-cobbled  streets 
and  a broad  expanse  of  plaza,  all  tilting  to  the  north,  by  far  the  largest 
Peruvian  city  I had  yet  seen,  almost  the  equal  in  size  of  Loja  in  Ecua- 
dor. The  stock  of  its  many  little  shops  comes  in  by  way  of  Pacasmayo 
and  the  railroad  to  Chilete,  showing  that  I was  “ over  the  divide  ” and 
approaching  Cajamarca.  On  August  30,  1882,  it  was  destroyed  by 
the  Chilians  — “ los  malditos  chilenos,”  as  the  inhabitants  still  call  them 
— but  Andean  building  material  being  plentiful,  it  soon  rose  from  its 
mud  ruins.  The  cura  was  even  then  superintending  the  cholos  tramp- 
ing together  with  their  bare  feet  the  clay  and  chopped  ichu-grass  that 
was  to  be  a new  church.  There  were  numerous  fondas,  as  befitted  a 
great  capital ; that  is,  mud  dens  with  a reed  shanty  in  the  barnyard  be- 
hind serving  as  kitchen,  kept  by  well-meaning  but  unprepossessing  fe- 

258 


APPROACHING  INCA  LAND 


males  who  wiped  the  inside  of  each  plate  religiously  on  their  ample 
hips,  those  same  draft-horse  hips  on  which  they  squatted  on  the  earth 
floor  to  fill  the  receptacles  similarly  placed,  while  driving  off  with  the 
free  hand  the  curs  and  guinea-pigs  and  the  chickens  perching  on  the 
edge  of  the  kettles.  There  were  even  oil-lamps  in  a few  of  the  more 
pretentious  shops  and  mansions,  though  almost  all  without  chimneys, 
not  easily  imported  from  the  other  side  of  the  world  by  ship  and  mule- 
back  over  breakneck  trails.  Haughty,  belligerent  roosters  stood  tied  by 
a leg  before  half  the  doors  in  town,  so  that  each  street  was  a long  vista 
of  pugnacious  cocks  frequently  submitting  to  the  anxious  ministrations 
of  their  proud  owners.  Even  without  them  I should  not  have  slept 
unbrokenly.  Official  assistance  had  gained  me  lodging  on  the  home- 
made counter  of  an  empty  shop  hung  with  cobwebs  and  perfumed  with 
the  mustiness  of  several  generations,  the  door  of  which,  flush  with  the 
narrow  sidewalk,  of  course,  was  the  only  source  of  air.  There,  as 
often  as  a night-hawk  passed  on  his  way  home  from  the  local  “ billar,” 
he  paused  to  beat  me  awake  with  the  rapping  of  his  cane  and  to  sing- 
song in  that  dulcet  voice  of  the  Latin-American,  mellow  with  late  hours, 
“Your  door  is  open,  senor;  I will  close  it  for  you.”  And  if,  instead 
of  reaching  under  the  counter  for  my  revolver  or  a convenient  adobe 
brick,  I did  not  summon  a patient  courtesy  I do  not  possess  and 
answer,  “ Mil  gracias,  senor ; no,  thank  you,  leave  it  open,  please,”  and 
then  rise  and  open  it  again,  because  he  fancied  his  ears  had  deceived 
him,  I should  have  lost  the  rating  of  “ simpatico,”  and  been  branded 
a rude  and  discourteous  gringo. 

Bambamarca,  an  atrociously  stony  half-day  beyond  Chota  and  its 
surrounding  bowl,  like  a mosaic  of  little  farms  where  female  shepherds, 
bare  to  their  weather-browned  knees,  incessantly  turn  the  white,  brown, 
and  black  fleece  of  their  flocks  into  yarn  on  their  crude  Incaic  spindles, 
reported  the  trail  ahead  “ the  worst  road  in  Peru  ” — which  is  indeed 
strong  language.  They  were  certain,  too,  that,  though  I might  — with 
the  accent  on  the  verb  — have  arrived  from  “ La  Provincia  ” alive,  the 
marauders  beyond  would  see  to  it  that  I did  not  reach  Cajamarca  in 
that  condition.  A cold  rain  fell  incessantly  from  sullen  skies  during 
a day  of  unbroken  plodding,  first  up  the  canon  of  a small  river, 
crossed  now  and  then  by  thatched  bridges,  until  it  dwindled  away  and 
left  me  to  splash  at  random  over  a reeking  mountain-top.  I had  been 
lost  for  hours,  and  was  dripping  water  at  every  pore,  when  I spied, 
toward  what  would  have  been  sunset,  four  little  Indian  boys  huddled 
under  the  ruin  of  a hut,  and  signed  to  them  to  give  me  information. 

259 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


Instead,  they  took  to  their  heels,  as  if  all  the  evil  spirits  of  the  Inca 
religion  had  suddenly  crested  the  water-soaked  range.  I set  after 
them,  but  my  best  pace  under  my  load  being  barely  equal  to  theirs, 
I drew  my  revolver  and  fired  twice  into  the  air ; whereupon  they  halted 
and  awaited  me  in  ashen  fear.  The  one  I chose  as  guide  led  me  over 
a rolling  paramo  deeply  gashed  by  rain-swollen  streams,  and  abandoned 
me  within  sight  of  the  imposing  estate-house  of  what  turned  out  to  be 
the  “ Hacienda  Yanacancha.”  In  the  corredor,  just  out  of  reach  of 
the  drenching  rain,  stood  a white  man  in  khaki,  monarch  of  half  the 
visible  world,  and  so  little  like  the  uncouth  illiterate  I expected  that  he 
replied  in  faultless  Castilian  to  my  remark  about  the  absence  of  roads : 
“ Yes,  unfortunately  South  America  fell  to  the  Spaniards,  whereas 
it  should  have  been  settled  by  Anglo-Saxons.” 

Here,  for  the  first  time  in  Peru,  was  an  hacendado  who  had  trained 
his  dogs  and  servants  to  some  understanding  of  their  respective  spheres, 
and  had  even  given  the  latter  an  inkling  of  that  thin,  gray  line  between 
cleanliness  and  its  opposite.  A trivial  incident  will  demonstrate  to 
what  lowly  point  of  view  my  recent  experiences  had  brought  me. 
When  my  host  showed  me  into  a large  guest-room,  I caught  sight,  in 
the  semi-obscurity,  of  a reed  mat  on  the  floor,  and  through  me  flashed 
a thrill  of  joy  that  I should  have  this  to  sleep  on,  instead  of  the  cold, 
dank  tiles.  Whereas,  on  closer  view  this  proved  to  be  the  foot-mat  be- 
fore a huge  colonial  bedstead,  regally  furnished  with  soft  mattresses 
and  spotless  woolen  blankets.  My  host  even  apologized  for  the  ab- 
sence of  sheets.  As  if  I should  have  recognized  that  forgotten  flora, 
even  in  its  native  habitat!  Yet  my  misgivings  of  playing  the  role  of 
Hugo’s  maltreated  hero  materialized.  Whether  it  was  due  to  the 
fever  within  me  struggling  for  existence,  or  to  the  all-too-sudden  re- 
turn to  luxury,  I tossed  sleeplessly  well  into  the  night,  and  it  was 
rolled  up  on  the  mat  on  the  tile  floor  that  the  cold,  steel-gray  dawn 
creeping  in  at  the  wooden-barred  windows  found  me. 

The  “ road  ” across  soggy  highland  meadows  and  past  those  fan- 
tastic heaped-up  peaks  and  splintered  ranges  of  black  rocks  that  give 
the  “ Hacienda  Yanacancha  ” (“  Black  Rocks  ”)  its  name,  was  largely 
imaginary.  At  first,  within  sprinting  distance  of  the  house,  were  a 
few  inhabited  haycocks  of  shepherds,  like  Esquimaux  dwellings  of 
weather-blackened  pajonal  in  place  of  snow  and  ice,  with  a hole  to 
crawl  in  at  on  all  fours.  Then  the  visible  world,  straining  ever  higher, 
spread  out  into  a rolling  mountain-top,  a totally  uninhabited  region 
where  was  heard  only  the  mournful  sighing  of  the  wind  across  a bound- 

260 


APPROACHING  INCA  LAND 


less,  rolling,  yellow-brown  sea  of  the  dreary  bunch-grass  of  the  upper 
Andes.  Across  it  the  often  invisible  way  undulated  with  such  regu- 
larity that  I was  continually  descending  into  or  climbing  out  of  hollows 
trodden  to  a mud  pudding  about  the  cold  streams  that  wandered 
down  from  the  scarcely  more  lofty  heights.  There  were  myriad  hid- 
ing-places behind  the  jagged  gray  rocks  piled  erratically  along  the  way, 
from  which  evil-doers  might  have  picked  me  off.  So  notorious  is  this 
region  for  its  mishaps  to  travelers  that  natives  rarely  cross  it  except 
in  large  groups.  But  the  wholesome  respect  in  which  a “ gringo,” 
especially  one  who  carries  a shooting-iron  prominently  displayed,  is 
held  is  the  best  protection  in  Latin-America,  far  more  so  than  an 
escort  of  native  soldiers,  the  presence  of  which  is  apt  to  imply  to  the 
lurking  bandit  an  admission  of  inability  to  depend  on  one’s  gringo  self, 
even  if  the  soldiers  do  not  prove  confederates  of  the  outlaws  or  run 
away  at  sight  of  them. 

On  and  ever  on  the  cold,  desolate,  inhospitable  despoblado  rose  and 
fell  in  broad  swells  or  billows,  the  barren,  yellow,  uninhabited  world 
sighing  mournfully  to  itself.  This  long  day  is  obligatory  on  all  who 
come  to  Cajamarca  from  the  north,  for  there  is  no  halting-place  in  all 
the  expanse  of  puna  south  of  Yanacancha.  I should  have  covered  the 
thirty-five  miles  before  the  day  was  done,  had  not  a long  dormant  or 
newly  acquired  fever  suddenly  broken  out  in  mid-afternoon.  Every 
setting  of  one  leg  before  the  other  was  as  great  an  effort  as  jumping 
over  a ferry-boat,  yet  I must  prod  myself  pitilessly  on,  for  to  be  over- 
taken by  night  on  this  inhospitable,  wind-swept  puna  would  have  been 
worse  than  fever.  With  infinite  struggle  I came  at  last  to  where 
this  broadest  of  paramos  began  to  fall  away  toward  the  north ; then 
the  slope  contracted  to  a gully  that  gathered  together  the  score  or 
more  of  separate  but  not  distinct  paths  that  make  up  the  “ highway  ” 
across  the  lofty  plain,  and  brought  me  before  sunset  to  the  first  of  a 
scattered  cluster  of  stone  and  mud  kennels.  A leather-faced  old  In- 
dian, speaking  the  first  Quichua  I had  heard  since  Cuenca,  gave  me  a 
handful  of  ichu-grass  to  sit  on  outside  the  smaller  of  his  two  huts, 
and  left  me  to  the  company  of  his  prowling  yellow  curs.  Night  had 
fallen  completely  before  a woman  brought  me  a gourd  of  boiling 
potato  mush,  but  at  length  the  chary  old  Indian,  overcoming  his  racial 
indifference  and  distrust,  opened  the  door  of  the  hut  against  which  I 
lay  and  let  me  into  a sort  of  Incaic  warehouse.  In  it  were  heaps  of 
the  huge  balls  of  yarn  spun  by  the  Indian  women  on  their  prehistoric 
spindles,  a supply  of  paramo  grass  I might  spread  on  the  earth  floor, 

261 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


and  several  large  bolts  of  homespun  cloth  of  coarse  texture  and  cruder 
colors  with  which  I might  feather  my  arctic  nest,  once  it  was  late 
enough  to  hope  the  owner  would  not  catch  me  at  it. 

In  the  adjoining  family  hut  a baby  had  been  crying  incessantly  for 
an  hour  or  more.  The  afterchill  of  the  fever  was  settling  upon  me 
when  a young  Indian  entered,  bearing  the  infant,  and  a handful  of 
twisted  grass  as  torch.  Without  preliminary  he  requested  me,  if  I un- 
derstood his  language,  to  spit  in  the  child’s  face. 

“ I don’t  get  you,”  I replied,  in  my  most  colloquial  if  imperfect 
Quichua. 

“ Do  me  the  favor  to  spit  in  its  face,”  he  repeated,  and  by  way  of 
illustration  spat  swiftly  and  lightly,  with  the  point  of  his  tongue  be- 
tween his  lips,  a fine  spray  in  the  face  of  the  squalling  infant. 

“ But  why  not  do  it  yourself?  ” I protested. 

“ Manam,  viracocha;  it  must  be  some  one  the  guaguita  does  not 
know.” 

When  it  had  become  evident  that  there  was  no  other  way  of  being 
left  in  peace,  I rose  and  sprayed  the  infant.  To  my  astonishment  it 
ceased  its  wailing  instantly,  stared  wide-eyed  into  my  face  until  the 
father  turned  away,  and  was  not  again  heard  during  the  night.  Floor- 
walking benedicts  may  adopt  this  bit  of  domestic  science  from  the 
ancient  civilization  of  the  Incas  free  of  charge. 

There  were  but  nine  miles  left  to  do  in  the  morning,  but  the  mere 
numeral  gives  little  hint  of  the  real  task.  Both  road  and  bridges  con- 
tinued strikingly  conspicuous  by  their  absence ; for  hours  the  atrocious 
trail  zigzagged  unevenly,  at  times  almost  perpendicularly  down  what 
was  left  of  the  mountainside.  Then  it  forded  waist-deep  the  Caja- 
marca  river,  and  joining  a Sunday-morning  procession  of  market- 
bound  Indians  with  a clashing  of  colors  almost  equal  to  those  of  Quito, 
picked  its  way  around  stony  foothills  along  a slowly  widening  valley 
gradually  checkered  with  the  varying  greens  of  cultivation.  The  cool 
summer  air  and  a more  passable  road  drew  me  ever  more  swiftly  on ; 
the  sound  of  church-bells,  musically  distant,  floating  northward  on  the 
breeze,  located  vaguely  somewhere  among  the  eucalyptus  trees  ahead 
the  end  of  the  third  stage  of  my  Andean  journey.  Huts  turned  to 
houses,  thicker  and  thicker  along  the  way,  until  they  grew  together  into 
two  unbroken  rows.  The  air  grew  heavy  with  the  scent  of  the  “ Aus- 
tralian gum  ” ; I passed  under  an  aged,  whitewashed  arch  straddling 
the  street,  and  on  April  27,  at  the  hour  of  the  return  from  mass,  found 
myself  creaking  along  the  canted,  flagstone  sidewalks  of  famous  old 

262 


APPROACHING  INCA  LAND 


Cajamarca,  the  first  real  city,  even  in  the  South-American  sense,  I 
had  come  upon  in  Peru.  Armed  and  bedraggled,  with  an  alforja  hang- 
ing heavy  over  one  shoulder,  I presented  no  conventional  sight.  Yet 
the  cajamarquinos  gave  me  comparatively  slight  attention.  No  doubt 
they  were  accustomed  to  such  apparitions ; Pizarro  and  his  fellow- 
roughnecks  could  have  been  little  less  wayworn  and  weather-bleached 
when  they  rode  in  upon  Cajamarca  over  these  same  hills.  Accord- 
ing to  careful  calculation  I had  walked  1773  miles  from  Bogota,  929 
from  Quito.  Of  the  79  days  from  the  Ecuadorian  capital  I had  spent 
thirty  in  the  towns  and  hamlets  along  the  way,  and  the  remainder  in 
whole  or  part  on  the  road. 

As  far  back  as  Ayavaca  I had  begun  to  hear  praises  of  the  “ mag- 
nificent hotels  ” of  Cajamarca.  The  disappointment  was  propor- 
tionately bitter.  The  “ Hotel  Internacional  ” was  a defunct  lodging- 
house,  the  “ Hotel  Amazonas,”  further  on,  merely  a row  of  rooms 
opening  on  the  second-story  balcony.  They  were  tolerable  rooms, 
with  flagstone  floors  and  wooden  bed-springs,  and  had  the  extraordi- 
nary advantage  of  being  in  the  second  story,  out  of  reach  of  staring 
passersby ; but  they  were  furnished  only  with  the  bare  necessities  and 
were  covered  everywhere  with  a half-inch,  more  or  less,  of  dust. 
This  was  hardly  to  be  wondered  at.  Pizarro  and  his  band  of  tramps 
must  have  raised  a deuce  of  a dust  when  they  perpetrated  the  Conquest 
of  Peru  and  took  Atahuallpa  into  their  tender  keeping  in  the  great 
plaza  a short  block  away,  on  that  Saturday  evening,  381  years  before. 
Strangest  of  all,  the  hotel  rates  were  posted  in  plain  sight,  where  even 
foreigners  might  see ; forty  cents  a night,  or  thirty  if  the  room  was 
occupied  a month  or  more.  Evidently  another  fussy  gringo  had  been 
here  before  me,  for  the  printed  rules  contained  the  following  by- 
law : 

“ The  senor  passenger  who  shall  desire  to  use  two  mattresses  on  the 
same  bed  will  subject  himself  to  the  payment  of  ten  cents  above  the  or- 
dinary pension.” 

The  original  motive  could  not  have  been  Hays ; for  the  notice  was 
yellow  with  time,  and  the  manager-chambermaid,  though  he  gave  me 
many  details  of  the  doings  of  my  erstwhile  companion  as  he  grad- 
ually got  my  indispensable  requirements  together,  with  great  care  not 
to  remove  the  historic  dust  anywhere,  did  not  mention  any  such  gringo 
idiosyncrasy.  Every  non-resident  of  Cajamarca,  be  he  a tawny,  soil- 
incrusted  Indian  from  up  in  the  hills,  or  the  representative  of  some  am- 
bitious European  house,  eats  in  one  of  two  Chinese  fondas,  or  take- 

263 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


your-chances  restaurants,  not  far  off  the  main  plaza.  The  transient' 
enters  a Celestial  general-store,  passes  through  it  and  a dingy  room, 
crowded  with  tables  about  which  barefoot  Indians,  male  and  female, 
their  aged  felt  hats  on  their  heads,  are  helping  themselves  with  spoons 
or  fingers,  and  through  another  doorless  door  into  a smaller  chamber 
with  a single  long  table  covered  by  an  oilcloth  of  long  and  troubled 
history,  where  he  is  sure  to  find  a place  because  of  the  requirement  of 
shoes.  During  the  process  he  will  pass  close  by  the  open  kitchen  with 
its  iron  cooking-range  — the  first  I had  seen  in  South  America  — 
manipulated  by  a grizzled  old  Chinaman.  The  service  is  a la  carte  and, 
but  for  the  shoes  and  oilcloth,  identical  in  both  dining-rooms.  Here 
one  will  find  a greasy  strip  of  paper  with  a printed  menu,  easily  com- 
prehensible to  anyone  with  a Spanish  and  Quichua  dictionary,  a treatise 
on  Peruvian  coast  slang,  and  some  smacking  of  Chinese  in  Spanish  mis- 
spelling ; or  which,  in  the  very  likely  event  of  the  client  being  unable  to 
read,  the  barefoot  waiter  will  recite  in  Shakesperean  cadence  and 
breathless  continuity.  Indeed,  but  for  the  language,  one  might  fancy 
oneself  back  on  the  lower  Bowery  as  the  waiter  bawls  to  the  kitchen : 

“ Un  churrasco  ! ” 

“ Un  biste  fogoso  ! ” 

“ Hasta  cuando  esos  choclos  ? ” 

The  high  cost  of  living,  like  the  railroad  decreed  by  congress  in 
1864,  had  not  yet  climbed  over  the  range  into  Cajamarca.  The  dishes 
are  2]/2  or  five  cents  each.  There  are,  to  be  sure,  a few  ten-cent  ones, 
but  these  are  what  terrapin  would  be  with  us,  and  their  consumption  is 
not  encouraged,  being  above  the  tone  of  Cajamarca.  The  first  price 
covers  a dozen  delicacies,  such  as  “ patitas  con  arroz  — pigs’  feetlets 
with  rice,”  fried  brains,  liver,  or  chupe,  the  Irish-stew  of  the  Andes. 
At  five  cents  the  epicure  to  whom  money  is  no  object  may  have  a 
breaded  “ biste  ” with  onions,  rice,  and  potatoes,  a “ baefs  teak  pai,” 
“ rosbif  de  cordero  — roast  beef  of  mutton  — ” “ a beefsteak  of  pork,” 
and  a score  of  even  more  endurable  concoctions.  Chocolate,  which  is 
native  to  the  region  and  excellently  made,  is  2]/2  cents ; a cup  of  coffee, 
which  no  one  in  Cajamarca  knows  how  to  make,  costs  twice  that. 
Eggs  “ in  any  style  ” are  two  cents  each,  and  a loaf  of  bread,  of  the 
size  of  a biscuit,  one  cent — for  in  Cajamarca  the  traveler  first  finds 
the  huge  copper  one-cent  and  half-cent  pieces.  The  greatest  gourmand 
sailing  the  high  seas  could  not  spend  more  than  fifteen,  or  possibly 
twenty  cents,  for  a dinner  in  Cajamarca  — and  a “tip”  is  unknown. 

I had  been  duly  warned  that  the  table-manners  would  be  on  a par 

264 


The  only  wheeled  vehicle  I saw  in  Peru  during  my  first  three  months  in  that  country 


One  of  the  many  unfinished  churches  of  Cajamarca 


APPROACHING  INCA  LAND 


with  those  of  Colombia  and  Ecuador.  Before  I left  Quito,  Hays  had 
written,  “ In  Peru  soup  is  eaten  with  brilliancy,  the  high  notes  being 
sustained  with  great  verve.”  The  same  table  utensils  reached  both 
the  shod  minority  and  the  Indians  under  their  hats ; the  table  de  luxe 
was  supplied,  after  that  democratic  South  American  manner,  with  one 
drinking-glass,  the  only  washing  of  which  was  what  it  inadvertently 
received  during  its  varied  service. 

Cajamarca,  as  everyone  whose  historical  education  was  not  crimi- 
nally neglected  knows,  was  not  founded ; it  was  found ; and  like  any- 
thing else  picked  up  by  the  Spaniards  of  those  days,  was  never  re- 
turned. It  lay  already  — but  unprepared  — spread  out  in  the  extreme 
northwest  corner  of  its  long,  fertile  valley  when  Pizarro  and  his  merry 
men  came  riding  down  upon  it  across  the  same  broad  paramo,  and 
they  caught  much  the  same  view  of  it  as  I,  though  in  those  days  it  was 
not  half-hidden  by  the  adorning  eucalyptus  trees  of  to-day,  nor  dis- 
tantly musical  with  church-bells.  The  famous  town,  now  capital  of 
a department,  which  is  to  Peru  what  a state  is  with  us,  is  more  or 
less  oval  in  shape,  some  ten  by  twenty  blocks  at  its  widest  and  longest, 
not  counting  the  huts  that  straggle  out  at  both  ends  along  its  principal 
“ highway  ” and  dot  the  outskirts  and  the  widening  plain.  It  is  seven 
degrees  below  the  equator  and  somewhat  warmer  than  Quito.  It 
stands  2814  meters  above  the  sea,  with  some  half-dozen  inhabitants 
for  every  meter.  In  all  but  its  history  it  is  tiresomely  like  any  other 
city  of  the  Andes.  The  streets,  monotonously  right-angled,  are  rudely 
cobbled,  with  open  sewers  down  the  center,  the  sidewalks  narrow, 
smooth-worn  flagstones  on  which  he  who  would  walk  must  jostle 
Indians,  donkeys,  and  stagnant  groups  of  less  useful  residents.  The 
adobe  houses,  often  two-story  and  always  toeing  the  street-line,  are 
red-tile  roofed  and  anciently  whitewashed.  Dingy  little  shops  of  odds 
and  ends  below,  the  flower-decked  patios  of  even  the  best-provided 
families  are  surrounded  on  the  ground  floor  by  the  dens  of  servants 
and  the  ragged  and  more  numerous  population,  as  in  Quito.  It  was 
the  first  place  in  Peru  where  I had  seen  window-glass.  By  night  its 
streets  are  “ lighted  ” with  faroles,  miniature  kerosene  lamps  inside 
square,  glass-sided  lanterns  that  are  given  to  succumbing  to  the  first 
strong  puff  of  breeze,  even  if  those  whose  duty  it  is  to  light  them  do 
not  have  more  pressing  engagements.  The  central  plaza  is  enormous, 
square  in  form,  but  coinciding  more  or  less  with  the  triangular  one  in 
which  Pizarro  and  the  Inca  collided  on  that  dusty  Saturday  evening 
of  an  earlier  century.  Flower-plots,  tended  with  less  monotonous 

265 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


formality  than  those  of  Quito,  bloom  chiefly  with  geraniums,  and 
among  them  the  historically  informed  inhabitants  point  out  the  stone 
on  which  Atahuallpa  succumbed  to  the  garrote  amid  the  heaven- 
opening ministrations  of  good  old  Father  Greenvale.  As  in  Quito, 
there  remain  almost  no  monuments  of  pre-Conquest  days,  for  the 
Incas  seem  to  have  built  here  chiefly  of  adobe.  The  most  intelligent 
of  Cajamarca’s  monks  doubted  whether  there  was  even  a Temple  of 
the  Sun  or  a House  of  the  Virgins  to  transform  into  monastery  or 
convent.  Not  far  off  the  main  plaza,  however,  set  cornerwise  in  the 
center  of  a modern  block,  is  the  room  that  was  to  be  filled  with  gold 
for  Atahuallpa’s  ransom,  said  to  be  of  massive  dressed  stone,  like  the 
palaces  of  Cuzco.  Stevenson,  who  was  in  Cajamarca  just  a hundred 
years  before  me,  found  still  visible  around  the  wall  the  mark  that  was 
to  measure  the  height  of  the  treasure,  and  the  room,  the  residence  of  a 
cacique.  To-day  it  is  an  orphanage,  where  a German  nun  was  teach- 
ing a score  of  female  “ orphans  ” to  earn  a livelihood  on  American 
sewing-machines,  and  the  treasure-mark,  as  well  as  all  evidence  of 
stone  structure,  had  been  whitewashed  out  of  existence,  as  something 
of  “ los  Gentiles  ” not  worth  preserving. 

The  unique  characteristic  of  Cajamarca,  and  almost  her  only  stone 
buildings,  are  her  half-dozen  splendid  old  churches,  soft-browned  by 
time  as  those  of  Salamanca,  and  having  the  appearance  of  being  half- 
ruined  by  earthquakes.  The  natives  asserted,  however,  that  they  were 
left  incomplete  because  in  colonial  days  every  finished  building  must 
pay  tribute  to  the  King  of  Spain.  Whatever  the  cause,  their  condition 
gives  an  unusual  architectural  effect  that  could  not  have  been  equalled 
by  any  design  of  man,  and  all  who  find  pleasure  in  the  “ picturesque  ” 
must  hope  that  Cajamarca  will  never  grow  wealthy  enough  to  finish 
them  — a misfortune  that  is  not  imminent.  The  Chilians  came  in 
August,  1882,  and,  taking  a note  from  Pizarro’s  note-book  — or,  more 
exactly,  from  that  of  his  secretary,  since  the  swine-herder  of  Estre- 
madura  was  not  fitted  to  keep  his  own  — stole  all  the  gold  and  jewels 
of  the  churches,  even  the  laboratory  equipment  of  the  schools,  and 
anything  else  that  chanced  to  be  lying  around ; though  they  found  no 
one  worth  holding  for  ransom.  One  of  the  principal  churches  bears 
an  inscription,  now  all  but  effaced  by  the  ubiquitous  whitewash,  an- 
nouncing that  “ This  santa  eglesia  was  erected  at  the  cost  of  one  million 
pesos  and  fifteen  centavos,”  the  extra  seven  cents  being  the  cost  of  bell- 
ropes.  In  the  great  monastery  of  San  Francisco,  facing  the  main 
plaza,  some  forty  amiable  but  ignorant  friars  loll  through  life,  chiefly 

266 


APPROACHING  INCA  LAND 


in  the  breezy  “ retiring  kiosk,”  carpeted,  like  that  of  Quito,  with  burnt 
matches  and  cigarette  butts.  They  knew  nothing  of  the  tomb  of 
Atahuallpa,  but  the  Spanish  organist,  who  looked  like  a ninth-inning 
baseball  “ fan  ” on  a hot  day,  led  me  to  the  church  and  played  in  my 
honor  on  “ the  largest  and  best  pipe-organ  in  Peru  ” not  only  our 
national  air,  but  several  Spanish  fandangos  and  a recent  Broadway 
favorite  that  is  seldom  admitted  to  ecclesiastical  circles. 

The  Indians  and  gente  del  pueblo  of  Cajamarca  have  nearly  as  much 
color  of  dress  as  those  of  Quito,  and  are  even  more  ragged  and  ab- 
jectly poverty-ridden.  Filthy,  maimed  beggars  adorn  the  fagades  of 
churches,  and  the  aboriginals  speak  a mushy,  mouthful,  dialect  of 
Ouichua,  though  all  know  Spanish.  None  of  the  Chinese  residents 
have  families ; yet  every  now  and  then  one  passes  a child  with  quaintly 
shaped  eyes  that  testify  to  the  engratiating  manners  of  the  Celestials. 
The  “ upper  ” classes  struggle  to  keep  the  theoretically  white  collars 
and  the  dandified  shoes  that  mark  their  caste,  and  dawdle  through  life 
as  shopkeepers,  lawyers  without  clients,  doctors  whose  degrees  fur- 
nish them  little  but  the  title,  or  at  any  makeshift  occupation  that  will 
spare  them  from  soiling  their  tapering  fingers  with  vulgar  labor. 
Opportunity  is  a rare  visitor,  yet  in  a century,  perhaps,  there  has  not 
been  born  in  Cajamarca  a boy  with  the  initiative  and  energy  to  tramp 
three  days  over  the  western  range  and  stow  away  for  somewhere  that 
he  could  make  a man  of  himself.  As  to  personal  habits:  a drug 
clerk  graduated  in  Lima  pours  out  of  their  bottles  the  pills  he  recom- 
mends, and  plays  them  idly  back  and  forth  from  one  unwashed  hand 
to  the  other  before  returning  them  to  the  shelf.  Yet  it  was  a relief 
to  loll  away  several  days  in  civilization,  even  Peruvianly  speaking.  If 
the  passing  stranger  was  not  entirely  free  from  the  open  mouth  and 
vacant  eye,  he  could  pass  a corner  group  without  all  falling  silent  and 
craning  their  necks  after  him,  and  might  even  sit  down  at  the  fonda 
table  without  all  interrupting  their  noisy  eating  to  mumble  over  their 
mouthful,  “Where  do  you  come  from  and  where  are  you  going?” 
But  even  a Peruvian  department  capital  has  not  yet  reached  that  stage 
which  makes  photography  easy,  or  the  coarsest  sarcasm  effective.  As 
often  as  I opened  my  kodak,  some  “ educated  ” member  of  society  was 
sure  to  crowd  close  to  me,  keeping  persistently  in  front  of  the  lens ; 
and  when  I had  at  length  manoeuvered  and  tricked  him  out  of  the  view, 
more  or  less,  I was  seeking,  he  was  certain  to  bleat  with  his  blandest 
smile,  “ Sacando  una  plancha,  no,  senor?”  If  I made  answer,  “No, 
my  esteemed  friend  of  ancient  and  noble  blood,  I am  building  an  aero- 

267 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


plane  on  sleigh-runners  to  cross  the  icy  stretches  of  the  Amazon,”  the 
half-baked  son  of  the  wilderness  might  reflect  solemnly  a moment  or 
two  before  making  some  such  inane  reply  as,  “ Yes,  it  is  a long  way  to 
the  Amazon.”  Almost  at  the  hour  of  my  arrival  an  enamored  youth 
of  Cajamarca  committed  suicide,  leaving  a letter  in  which  he  declared 
life  was  a farce.  Had  he  been  with  me  through  the  Province  of  Jaen, 
he  would  have  found  it  more  nearly  a melodrama.  Only  those  who 
have  endured  the  hardships  of  a long  trail  can  know  the  compensating 
pleasure  of  a return  to  even  comparative  comfort,  like  the  burgeoning 
of  spring  after  a hard  winter.  But,  after  all,  the  joys  of  the  trail  in 
the  Andes  are  chiefly  those  of  anticipation,  and  the  sense  of  accomplish- 
ment, of  exclusiveness  in  tramping  where  few  men  have  tramped  be- 
fore. For  there  can  be  slight  pleasure  of  intercourse  in  towns  where 
the  youths  of  the  “ best  families  ” follow  the  foreigner  with  cries  of 
“ Goot  neeght.  Awe  right,”  broken  by  snickers  of  silly  laughter;  and 
where  dreams  of  long  hours  in  something  resembling  a bed  are  rudely 
dispelled  by  the  din  of  church-bells,  the  whistles  of  lonesome  policemen, 
and  all  the  thousand  and  one  noises  with  which  the  Latin- American  can 
make  life  hideous.  In  the  matter  of  libraries  and  book-shops  Peru 
is  even  less  advanced  than  the  countries  to  the  north.  There  was,  to 
be  sure,  a department  library  in  Cajamarca,  but  “ for  the  present”  it 
was  closed.  In  despair  I canvassed  the  town  for  a book.  A clerk 
whom  I asked  why  no  printed  matter  was  to  be  had,  replied : 

“ No  hay  aficionados  a la  lectura  en  estas  partes,  senor.” 

“ Amateurs  of  reading,”  indeed ! As  one  might  say,  aficionados  of 
billiards,  “fans”  of  cock-fighting;  merely  an  amusing  game  to  pass 
the  time. 

“ But  what  on  earth  do  people  do  with  their  minds  ? ” I gasped. 

“ They  go  to  church,  senor,”  replied  the  clerk. 

But  the  best  of  Cajamarca  is  her  wonderful  green  and  checkered 
valley,  as  seen  from  the  rocky  hillock  ten  minutes  above  the  main  plaza, 
now  serving  as  a quarry  of  soft,  whitish  stone,  but  on  which,  if  any- 
where, must  have  been  the  fortress  historians  tell  us  overlooked  the 
Inca  city.  There  is,  indeed,  to-day  the  remnants  of  a cobble-stone  and 
adobe  building  on  the  summit,  and  cajamarquinos  who  climb  there  to 
enjoy  the  widespread  view  asserted  that  Atahuallpa  used  to  watch 
from  this  height  the  rising  and  setting  of  the  sun.  Prescott  might 
almost  have  sat  on  the  rocky  hillock  in  person  when  he  wrote : 

“ The  valley  of  Cajamarca,  enamelled  with  all  the  beauties  of  cultiva- 
tion, lay  unrolled  like  a rich  and  variegated  carpet  of  verdure,  in  strong 

268 


APPROACHING  INCA  LAND 


contrast  with  the  dark  forms  of  the  Andes  that  rose  up  everywhere 
about  it.  The  vale  is  of  oval  shape,  extending  about  five  leagues 
in  length  by  three  in  breadth,  and  was  inhabited  by  a superior  popula- 
tion to  any  the  Spaniards  had  yet  seen ; with  ten  thousand  houses  of 
clay  hardened  in  the  sun  and  some  ambitious  dwellings  of  hewn  stone.” 
The  valley,  stretching  away  south-southeast,  is  not  so  extensive  as 
the  reading  of  Prescott  leads  the  imagination  to  picture.  Except  in 
one  place,  where  it  spreads  out  like  the  arms  of  a cross,  it  is  surely  not 
more  than  a league  in  width.  But  the  suave  spring  view  across  it, 
green  with  the  deep  green  of  the  cactus,  and  clumped  now  by  the  Aus- 
tralian eucalyptus  in  contrast  to  the  treeless  days  of  the  Incas,  is  in 
certain  moods  and  aspects  the  most  beautiful  of  the  Andes,  though 
lacking  the  surrounding  snowclads  that  add  so  much  to  the  vale  of 
Quito.  Here  I came  often  to  sit  above  the  murmur  of  the  town,  until 
the  God  of  the  Incas,  after  his  daily  journey  around  the  earth  to  see 
that  all  was  well,  sank  behind  the  broad  paramo  of  Yanacancha,  blot- 
ting out  the  valley  stretching  away  to  the  southward  where  the  trail 
following  the  old  Inca  highway  down  the  backbone  of  the  continent, 
was  already  beckoning  me  on. 


269 


CHAPTER  XI 


DRAWBACKS  OF  THE  TRAIL 

r | ^RAMPING  down  the  Andes  is  like  walking  on  the  ridge  of  a 
steep  roof ; there  is  a constant  tendency  to  slip  off  on  one 

JL  side  or  the  other  and  slide  down  to  the  Pacific  or  the  Amazon. 
The  Latin-American  is  only  too  prone  to  follow  the  line  of  least  re- 
sistance, and  that  line  is  not  along  the  crest  of  the  Andes  where  the 
more  manly  Incas  traveled.  The  villager  obliged  to  journey  to  an- 
other town  of  the  Sierra  a hundred  miles  north  or  south  will  ride  mule- 
back  something  more  than  that  to  the  nearest  port,  take  ship  to  an- 
other harbor,  and  ride  another  hundred  miles  up  into  the  interior  to 
his  destination.  Hence  the  excellent  highway  that  might  have  been 
built  down  all  the  backbone  of  the  continent,  or  at  least  the  Inca  one 
that  might  have  been  kept  up,  does  not  exist.  Each  community  is  con- 
fined to  its  own  valley  and  cut  off  from  the  rest  by  almost  untrodden 
mountain  ranges,  or  by  trackless  bare  ridges  where  only  sheep  and  their 
hardy  shepherds  can  live.  Under  the  beneficent  rule  of  the  Incas 
means  of  intercommunication  were  infinitely  better  than  to-day;  then, 
roads  and  bridges  were  kept  in  constant  repair,  and  in  all  exposed 
parts,  at  intervals  along  the  cold  punas  and  among  the  mountain 
gorges,  were  government  tambos  with  shelter  and  food  for  both  man 
and  llamas. 

To  journey  from  Cajamarca  to  Lima  would  have  been  easy;  I had 
only  to  hire  a mule  to  Pacasmayo  and  catch  a passing  steamer.  But 
to  reach  there  by  the  route  I had  proposed  to  myself  was  another  mat- 
ter. Even  Raimondi’s  famous  map  of  Peru,  in  25  folios,  over  which  I 
spent  a morning  in  the  prefect’s  parlor,  offered  scanty  information,  a 
few  faint  lines  representing  trails  leading  almost  anywhere  except 
where  I would  go.  The  only  route  at  all  suited  to  my  purpose  seemed 
to  be  one  through  Huamachuco  and  Huraraz,  and  along  the  valley  of 
the  Santa  river.  Near  the  source  of  this  it  looked  as  if  I must  turn 
back  almost  due  north  and  climb  over  the  uninhabited,  snowclad  Cor- 
dillera Central,  whence  it  might  be  possible  to  reach  Cerro  de  Pasco. 
Local  information  was  not  even  equal  to  the  assertion  of  Prescott  — 

270 


DRAWBACKS  OF  THE  TRAIL 


who  had  never  been  nearer  South  America  than  the  southern  coast  of 
Massachusetts  — that  “ the  messengers  of  Pizarro  from  Caxamalca  to 
Cuzco  followed  the  elevated  regions  of  the  Cordillera  through  many 
populous  towns,  of  which  the  chief  were  Guamachuco,  Guanuco,  and 
Xauxa.”  At  best  I had  to  leave  the  scene  of  Atahuallpa’s  undoing 
with  little  knowledge  of  where  I was  going,  except  southward. 

Certain  preparations  were  essential  before  I plunged  again  into  the 
all  but  unknown.  The  trip  from  Loja  — the  longest  sustained  hard- 
ship I had  ever  undergone  — had  left  me  a sadly  depleted  ward- 
robe. Especially  were  my  walking-boots  in  the  last  stages.  The  shops 
of  Cajamarca  had  no  heavy  ones  among  their  stock,  but  I had  hoped, 
with  the  assistance  of  the  prefect,  to  buy  a pair  of  the  shoes  manufac- 
tured for  the  use  of  the  garrison-police.  The  department  chief,  how- 
ever, put  off  wiring  the  president,  or  laying  the  matter  before  congress, 
until  it  was  too  late.  A friendly  shoemaker  advised  me  to  apply  pri- 
vately to  a soldier  or  policeman. 

“ But  they  have  only  one  pair  each,”  I protested. 

“True,”  replied  the  zapatero,  “ pero  se  roban  entre  ellos  — they 
steal  from  each  other.” 

This  hint  also  had  been  too  long  delayed,  and  I was  forced  to  trust 
to  native  patching  to  carry  me  over  the  indefinite  region  to  the  next 
source  of  supply.  As  to  socks,  I had  found  that  the  best  for  tramp- 
ing the  Andes  were  none  at  all ; that  is,  a better  substitute  were  the 
“ fusslappen  ” of  the  German  soldier, — a square  of  cotton  flannel  on 
which  to  set  the  foot  diagonally,  fold  over  the  three  corners,  and  thrust 
it  into  the  boot.  The  small  silver  pieces  that  came  to  me  each  time  I 
threw  down  a sovereign  on  the  Chinaman’s  counter,  I had  laid  away 
for  the  road  ahead,  spending  the  heavy  coppers  and  the  cartwheel 
soles.  This  petty  point  is  extremely  important  in  the  Andes,  for  even 
the  man  able  and  willing  to  toss  out  gold  for  every  banana  he  buys 
often  finds  villages  of  the  Sierra  where  the  yellow  metal  will  not  be 
accepted ; and  those  who  might  otherwise  be  willing  to  change  a large 
coin  are  frequently  afraid  to  show  that  they  have  so  much  money  on 
hand.  The  rucksack  style  of  carrying  had  proved  burdensome.  For 
the  load  that  remained  I made  a leather  harness,  not  unlike  suspenders, 
with  half  my  possessions  balanced  against  the  rest.  Then,  having 
squandered  21  cents  in  the  greatest  banquet  known  to  the  Chinaman’s 
back  room,  I climbed  the  fortress  hill  to  watch  for  the  last  time  the 
interwoven  colors  of  the  setting  sun  across  the  rich  vale  of  Cajamarca. 

It  was  the  seventh  of  May  when  I struck  southward  again  along 

271 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


the  valley  floor.  A wide  highway  sidestepped  out  of  the  city;  but 
barely  had  the  scent  of  this  been  left  behind  than  a shallow  river  took 
possession  of  the  entire  width  of  the  road.  There  is  a sort  of  law- 
lessness both  of  man  and  nature  in  the  Andes,  and  many  is  the 
hacendado  who  thus  calmly  makes  use  of  the  public  highway  as  his 
irrigation  ditch.  When  Hernando  de  Soto  was  sent  with  fifteen  horse 
to  visit  the  Inca  at  his  baths  a few  miles  south  of  the  city,  “ they  fol- 
lowed a fine  causeway  across  the  plain  and  came  to  a small  stream  with 
a bridge,  but,  distrusting  its  strength,  dashed  through  the  water.”  An 
hour  from  town  I,  too,  was  dashing  through  the  water,  boots  in  hand, 
not  because  I distrusted  the  bridge,  but  because  there  was  not  the  ves- 
tige of  a bridge  left  to  distrust. 

Beyond  the  stream  were  the  famous  “ Banos  del  Inca,”  now  owned 
by  the  city  of  Cajamarca.  In  the  barnyard  of  a stone  and  adobe 
hacienda  a chola  woman  sent  an  Indian  boy  to  open  for  me  an  ad- 
joining baked-mud  room,  in  the  floor  of  which  was  a rough-stone  swim- 
ming-pool nearly  ten  feet  square.  Into  this  steaming  sulphurous  water 
was  pouring.  But  as  a group  of  Indians  were  washing  themselves  and 
their  rags  in  the  source  of  supply  outside,  I was  forced  to  relinquish 
the  rare  pleasure  of  a hot  bath,  even  in  so  famous  a setting.  His- 
torians report  the  existence  of  an  ancient  stone  bathtub  that  was  used 
by  the  Incas,  but  the  woman  was  certain  there  had  been  none  in  the 
vicinity  during  her  career  as  caretaker. 

The  road  she  pointed  out  emerged  from  the  back  gate  of  the  ha- 
cienda and  mounted  the  steaming  brook.  Higher  up,  where  I thrust 
a hand  in  it,  the  water  was  just  hot  enough  to  be  bearable.  The  valley 
of  Cajamarca,  stretching  far  southward,  had  promised  level  going  for 
a day  or  two.  But  though  there  was  plenty  of  space  for  it  on  the  valley 
floor,  the  camino  real,  true  to  its  Andean  environment,  preferred  to 
clamber  up  and  down  over  stony,  barren,  broken  ridges.  Before  noon 
it  had  raised  me  to  a paramo  where  several  cold,  blue  lakes  swarmed 
with  wild  ducks  that  were  not  even  gun-shy.  An  Indian  I fell  in  with 
said  they  were  never  hunted,  “ because  when  they  fall  there  is  no  way 
to  enter  the  water  and  get  them.”  Evidently,  like  his  forebears  of 
centuries  ago,  he  had  never  heard  of  a strange  invention  called  a boat. 

Two  days  of  stony  going,  now  between  hedges  of  ripe  tunas,  now 
over  high  ridges,  gashed  and  tumbled,  by  a trail  thirsty  despite  the 
frequent  fording  of  luke-warm  streams  gray  with  decomposed  rock, 
brought  me  to  San  Marcos  in  a tropical  and  fruitful  valley  withered  by 
a long  drought.  On  the  faqade  of  the  little  drygoods  shop  and  gov- 

272 


One  of  the  few  remaining  simpichacas,  or  suspension  bridges,  of  the  Andes.  In  Inca  days 
they  abounded,  often  sagging  from  one  mountain-top  to  another  over  appalling  gorges. 
To-day  steel  cables  take  the  place  of  the  woven  willow  withes  of  pre-Colombian 
times,  but  the  flooring  is  often  missing  and  the  swinging  contraptions 
uninviting  to  man  or  beast 


A typical  shop  of  the  Andes.  On  the  right,  eggs  and  chancaca , the  brown  blocks  of  crude 
sugar  wrapped  in  banana-leaves;  in  the  doorway,  pancake-shaped  corn  biscuits; 
on  the  left,  oranges,  green  in  color  though  ripe,  and  the  wheat-bread 
only  too  seldom  to  be  had  even  in  this  form 


DRAWBACKS  OF  THE  TRAIL 


ernment  salt-store  of  the  absent  gobernador  hung  a huge  sign  be- 
ginning “ socorro  peones,”  implying  that  the  owner  was  also  a 
“ hooker  ” of  workmen  for  a German-owned  sugar  estate  down  on  the 
coast.  When  I presented  my  order  from  the  prefect  of  the  depart- 
ment, the  wife  of  San  Marcos’  chief  “ authority  ” ordered  her  cholas 
to  prepare  me  dinner  at  once. 

“ I did  not  come  to  the  gobernador  that  he  should  personally  fur- 
nish me  accommodations,”  I protested.  “ I only  want  him  to  use  his 
authority  with  those  who  make  a business  of  lodging  strangers.” 

“ There  is  no  such  place  in  San  Marcos,”  replied  the  woman,  lock- 
ing up  shop  and  leading  me  into  her  parlor,  musty  with  disuse,  “ but 
all  travelers  are  welcome  here.” 

Behind  the  divan  to  which  she  motioned  me  stood  a life-size  figure 
of  the  Virgin,  flanked  by  another  of  Saint  Somebody.  In  honor  of 
the  arrival  of  a stranger,  perhaps,  the  matron  soon  reappeared  with 
several  serving-women  and,  stripping  the  “ Madre  de  Dios”  to  her 
bamboo-structured  nudity,  reattired  her  in  four  gowns,  each  of  which 
was  far  more  costly  than  those  worn  by  any  of  the  living  beings  pres- 
ent. Then  she  set  a newly  polished  crown  on  the  head  of  the  image 
and,  falling  on  her  knees  before  it,  began  to  rock  back  and  forth  im- 
ploring her  intercession  in  a monotonous  singsong.  With  dusk  ap- 
peared the  gobernador,  accompanied  by  two  traveling  salesmen,  and 
having  ordered  the  three  mules  picketed,  he  spent  a long  evening  bewail- 
ing with  them  the  rising  cost  of  commodities  “ of  first  necessity,  even 
our  very  aguardiente  and  pisco,  senores.”  In  the  act  of  looking  over 
my  papers,  his  eye  was  caught  by  a typewritten  document  in  English. 

“ Ah,  los  yanquis ! ” he  cried.  “ They  are  so  up-to-date  they  even 
avoid  the  labor  of  writing  by  having  their  letters  printed.  But  how 
can  they  afford  it?  ” 

“ Una  maquina  para  escribir,”  I explained. 

“A  writing-machine!”  he  gasped.  “Is  there  such  a thing?  I 
must  have  one  at  once,  for  I never  can  spell  things  right.” 

The  village  church  having  lost  its  roof,  most  of  the  old  women  in 
town  gathered  with  my  hostess  in  the  adjoining  parlor  and  droned  for 
hours  before  her  bamboo  saints.  For  a long  time  the  gobernador 
gave  no  heed  to  the  uproar,  though  it  forced  him  to  raise  his  voice 
almost  to  a shout.  Then  suddenly  he  broke  off  an  enumeration  of 
prices  with  an  angry : 

“ Flagame  el  favor!”  (In  the  Andes  the  expression  corresponds 
closely  to  our  colloquial  “What  do  you  know  about  that?”)  “ Por 

273 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


Dios,  those  beatas  would  pray  a man  insane ! ” and  dashing  into  the 
parlor,  he  broke  up  the  meeting  forthwith,  and  sent  the  manto-wrapped 
women  scurrying  out  through  the  zaguan  like  startled  crows. 

For  all  her  religious  duties  my  hostess  found  time  to  set  down  in 
my  note-book  the  recipe  of  the  most  potent  beverage  that  has  come 
down  from  the  Inca  civilization, — the  chicha  de  jora,  at  the  making 
of  which  that  served  with  the  evening  meal  proved  her  an  adept.  In 
a laborious  school-girl  hand,  and  with  a wealth  of  misspelling  that 
suggested  that  she,  too,  could  have  used  a “ writing-machine  ” to  ad- 
vantage, she  wrote : 

“ Take  ripe,  shelled  corn,  cover  with  water  and  leave  a week  or 
more  until  the  kernels  have  sprouted.  Dry  in  the  sun  two  or  three 
days.  Crush  to  a mass,  boil,  and  place,  when  cold,  in  jars  three- 
fourths  full,  adding  sugar  sufficient  to  cause  fermentation.” 

Despite  her  piety  and  attitude  of  Moorish  seclusion,  she  entered  into 
the  conversation  with  a frankness  peculiar  to  the  Latin  race.  Not  the 
least  startling  of  her  naive  questions  was : 

“ How  many  children  have  you  ? ” 

“ I am  not  married,”  I answered. 

“ Of  course  you  are  not  married,”  she  replied,  “ being  a traveler  all 
over  Peru  and  the  outside  world,  but  have  you  really  no  children 
at  all  ? ” 

At  daybreak  the  gobemador  sent  a boy  and  a horse  to  set  me  across 
— and  all  but  spill  me  into  — a rock-strewn  river  below  the  town, 
“ because  it  is  very  dangerous  to  wet  the  feet  in  the  morning.” 
Ichocan,  two  leagues  beyond  San  Marcos,  sits  high  and  cold  on  an 
eminence.  Behind  it  the  trail  sloped  languidly  upward,  then  pitched 
headlong  down  through  a stony,  desert-dry  wilderness,  inhabited  only 
by  cactus  and  wild  asses,  to  the  Condebamba  river,  its  lower  valley 
of  densest-green  a relieving  contrast  to  the  dreary,  arid  mountain 
flanks.  Across  the  roaring  gorge  a bridge  of  steel  cables,  supported 
by  railway  rails,  has  taken  the  place  of  the  chaca  of  woven  willow 
withes  of  Inca  days.  But  it  still  looked  frail  and  aerial  enough,  sway- 
ing high  above  the  racing  stream  thtlt  would  quickly  have  swept  a 
stumbling  traveler  through  rock-walled  hills  to  the  Maranon  and  the 
Amazon,  and  the  few  arrieros  who  follow  this  route  have  no  easy  task 
in  driving  their  donkeys  across  it. 

A pole-and-mud  hut  on  the  dreary  slope  of  the  further  bank  housed 
the  guardian  of  the  bridge,  a fever-laden  skeleton  who  was  barely 
able  to  crawl  after  an  unbroken  year  of  paludismo,  the  intermittent 

274 


DRAWBACKS  OF  THE  TRAIL 


fever  of  the  Andes  that  lurks  in  all  such  sunken  valleys  as  that  of 
the  Condebamba.  I might  better  have  spent  the  night  on  the  hillside 
beyond,  than  to  have  tossed  it  through  on  the  hut  floor,  swarming  with 
some  species  of  shark-jawed  insect.  Luckily  I was  not  offered  the 
first  bowl  of  chicha  before  I found  the  guardian’s  female  companion 
concocting  the  family  supply,  for  her  method  was  little  less  disillusion- 
ing than  that  of  the  yuca-chewing  Jivaros  Indians.  When  it  had  been 
boiled  in  a huge  kettle  that  spent  its  days  of  disuse  as  a nesting-place 
for  the  family  curs,  the  liquid  was  poured  off  into  a long,  shallow  tub, 
like  a small  dug-out  canoe,  the  same  one  that  would  serve  another 
purpose  on  wash-day.  Squatted  on  the  ground  beside  it,  the  woman 
was  stirring  it  slowly  with  a stick  she  had  caught  up  at  random.  Bit 
by  bit  two  gaunt  and  mangy  curs  slunk  nearer,  until  their  noses  all  but 
touched  the  steaming  liquid,  whereupon  the  woman  left  off  her  stir- 
ring long  enough  to  rap  them  over  the  head  with  the  ladle.  The 
dogs  retreated  a yard  or  two  with  cowardly  yelps,  only  to  repeat  the 
advance  over  and  over  again.  The  chola’s  vigilance,  it  turned  out, 
was  not  due  to  any  unwonted  sense  of  cleanliness ; she  was  merely  bent 
on  saving  the  animals  from  burning  themselves.  As  soon  as  she 
judged  the  liquid  cool  enough,  she  gave  a sign,  and  the  curs  fell  upon 
the  tub  and  greedily  lapped  up  the  scum.  Thus  saved  the  labor  of 
skimming  it,  the  female  crawled  to  her  feet  and  set  the  stuff  away  in 
earthen  jars  to  ferment. 

One  barren,  stony  ridge  after  another  in  pitiless  succession  carried 
me  much  higher  before  the  following  noonday.  My  course  now  lay 
well  east  of  south,  for  I had  caught  the  swing  of  the  west  coast  of 
South  America.  One  last  mighty  surge  and  the  world  fell  away  be- 
fore me,  disclosing  almost  within  shouting  distance  the  provincial  capi- 
tal of  Cajabamba.  But  it  is  a good  rule  in  the  Andes  never  to  sit  down 
in  the  plaza  until  you  reach  the  town.  Between  me  and  the  day’s  goal 
lay  hidden  one  of  those  mighty  holes  in  the  earth  that  mean  the  un- 
doing and  repetition  of  all  the  toil  that  has  gone  before.  The  shadows 
were  beginning  to  climb  the  eastern  wall  of  Cajabamba’s  valley  before 
I reached  the  century-polished  cobbles  of  the  street  that  had  swallowed 
up  the  converging  trails. 

The  plump  young  subprefect,  who  was  awaiting  me  in  state  upon  my 
return  from  the  Chinese  fonda  to  which  a soldier  had  piloted  me,  would 
have  been  rosy-cheeked  had  not  some  careless  ancestor  faintly  clouded 
his  family  tree  and  given  a quaint  kink  to  his  hair.  He  returned  my 
papers  with  a regal  bow  and  bade  me  make  my  home  in  his  office  as 

275 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


long  as  I chose  to  honor  Cajabamba  with  my  presence.  The  “bed” 
was  a blanket  on  the  yielding,  earth-covered  floor ; but  I had  twenty  sol- 
diers at  my  beck  and  call,  and  what  mattered  it  if,  each  time  I would 
make  my  toilet,  I must  go  to  jail?  Luckily  the  rust-hinged  doors  and 
chain-weighted  gates  creaked  with  as  pompous  humility  and  dignified 
alacrity  for  my  exit  as  to  admit  me,  though  there  were  those  within 
who  had  not  passed  them  in  twenty  years. 

By  the  time  I was  city-dressed,  the  subprefect,  pomaded  and  be- 
frocked  within  an  inch  of  his  life,  fluttered  into  my  boudoir  to  ask, 
in  breathless  oratorical  periods,  if,  inasmuch  as  he  had  just  been 
married  last  week,  or  during  the  night,  and  mother  down  on  the  coast 
was  dying  to  know  what  the  new  acquisition  looked  like  and  there 
were  no  photographers  in  Cajabamba  and  it  was  a pity  Peru  was  so 
backward,  would  I not  have  the  fineza  to  take  fifteen  or  twenty  pic- 
tures of  him  and  his  novia  and  deliver  a few  dozen  finished  and 
mounted  prints  for  him  and  her  and  their  relatives  and  friends  and 
compadres  and  associates  within  an  hour  or  two  ? As  the  carelessness 
of  my  American  agent  had  left  me  almost  filmless,  this  was  neither 
the  first  nor  the  last  time  I was  put  to  the  unpleasant  necessity  of 
“ faking  ” a picture.  To  have  refused  his  request,  even  with  humble 
apologies  and  laborious  explanations,  would  have  been  to  win  the  ill- 
will  of  Cajabamba’s  ruler  and  all  his  dependents,  had  it  not  resulted  in 
the  trumping  up  of  some  transparent  excuse  to  turn  me  out  and  refuse 
me  official  assistance  in  finding  other  lodgings.  A photographer  speak- 
ing some  Spanish  could  pick  up  much  silver  down  the  crest  of  the 
Andes;  it  would  have  been  a kindness  if  he  had  made  the  trip  a few 
days  ahead  of  me.  To  be  sure,  these  official  requests  were  always  use- 
ful, in  a way.  While  the  powdered  and  perfumed  “ authorities  ” were 
puffing  themselves  up  to  the  requisite  pomposity,  the  town  was  sure  to 
gather  alongside,  and  as  neither  the  fancied  nor  the  real  subjects  were 
well  enough  versed  in  mechanics  to  know  whether  a kodak  operates 
endwise  or  sidewise,  I caught  many  a nonchalant  pose  of  some  really 
worthwhile  bystander  that  I might  have  begged  for  in  vain.  On  this 
occasion  the  novia,  having  spent  a few  hours  in  completely  disguising 
herself,  as  women  will  under  the  circumstances  the  world  over,  ap- 
peared at  last,  deathly  pale  with  rice  powder,  and  the  pair  assumed 
a score  of  fetching  poses  under  my  direction.  True,  it  was  dark  by 
that  time.  But  the  subprefect  saw  no  reason  why  a photograph  should 
not  be  taken  by  the  light  of  three  sputtering  candles.  He  preferred  it, 

276 


DRAWBACKS  OF  THE  TRAIL 


indeed,  to  embracing  his  newly-won  treasure  in  the  public  glare  of  day. 
But  the  night  had  grown  aged  before  he  feigned  to  understand  the 
impossibility  of  immediate  delivery,  and  he  accepted  only  sulkily  my 
promise  to  send  the  finished  portraits  back  from  the  next  city,  “ if 
they  turned  out  well.” 

During  my  morning  stroll  about  town  I was  accosted  in  English  from 
the  zaguan  of  a building  of  delapidated  adobe  splendor.  So  often  had 
I heard  a laborious  “ Goot  mawnin,  seer,  how  do  yo  do?”  from  some 
silly  youth  whose  knowledge  of  foreign  tongues  began  and  ended  with 
that  phrase,  that  I nodded  and  passed  on.  I have  too  much  affection 
for  my  mother  tongue  to  hear  it  gratuitously  maltreated ; moreover,  it 
had  lain  so  long  idle  that  to  speak  it  had  come  to  seem  an  affectation. 
This  time,  however,  the  speaker  continued  with  faultless  fluency : 
“ I hear  you  are  an  American.” 

“ Just  so.” 

“I  am  Carlos  Traverso,  at  your  service;  graduate  of  an  American 
university.” 

“ Which  one?” 

“ Michigan.” 

“ Indeed  ! So  am  I.” 

“ Valgame  Dios ! ” gasped  the  youth,  betrayed  by  astonishment  into 
his  native  tongue  for  a moment.  “ Can’t  you  come  around  to  my  room, 
your  own  house,  as  I should  say  in  Peru.  You  probably  haven’t  seen 
the  latest  copy  of  the  ‘ Alumnus  ’?  ” 

“ Nor  the  twenty  latest  ones.  With  the  greatest  of  pleasure.” 

In  spite  of  myself  I found  my  tongue  translating  the  set  Castilian 
phrases  I had  so  long  been  using,  instead  of  falling  into  the  colloquial- 
isms of  my  own  land.  When  I was  ensconced  in  an  American  arm- 
chair battered  with  the  evidence  of  a long  journey  and  of  the  crude  un- 
loading facilities  of  West  Coast  ports,  surrounded  by  walls  hidden 
under  banners  and  photographs  that  seemed  to  turn  the  adobe  chamber 
into  a college  dormitory  transported  to  the  wilds  of  the  Andes,  the 
youth  went  on : 

“ The  government  of  Peru  gives  four  betas,  that  is,  sends  yearly  an 
honor  student  to  each  of  four  American  universities,  with  an  allow- 
ance of  a hundred  dollars  a month.  . . .” 

“That  is,  you  had  $4800  for  the  course  at  Michigan?” 

“ Yes,  with  traveling  expenses.  You  probably  had  about  the  same 
allowance  ? ” 


277 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


“ Fortunately  not,  or  I should  long  since  have  been  gracing  some 
home  for  inebriates.  And  is  this  just  a present  from  the  govern- 
ment ? ” 

“ No;  on  our  return  we  must  serve  the  government  for  three  years 
at  the  same  salary.  I am  superintendent  of  schools  in  this  and  the 
neighboring  province  of  Huamachuco.” 

The  son  of  a Scandinavian  father,  Traverso  had  evidently  over- 
come the  handicap  of  an  allowance  the  spending  of  which  would  have 
consumed  the  entire  energies  of  a full-blooded  Latin-American,  and 
had  brought  back  a real  education.  His  shelves  were  filled  with  the 
latest  treatises  on  pedagogy,  in  several  languages,  and  a brief  acquaint- 
ance was  enough  to  show  that  he  was  earnestly  striving  to  instill  some 
new  life  into  the  moribund  system  of  his  native  land. 

“ But  what ’s  the  use?  ” he  concluded  gloomily,  casting  aside  a care- 
fully worked  out  plan  of  study.  “ A man’s  wings  are  clipped  before 
he  can  start  to  fly.  Theoretically  I have  full  authority  over  school 
matters  in  my  two  provinces;  practically  I can’t  alter  by  a hair  the 
benighted  medieval  routine  of  studies,  interwoven  at  every  turn  by  the 
lives  of  the  saints,  that  Peru  has  stumbled  along  under  for  centuries. 
I can’t  fire  a fifteen-dollar-a-month  numskull  up  in  one  of  the  mountain 
villages,  even  though  he  doesn’t  know  whether  Chile  is  in  New  York 
or  in  Europe.  The  priests  have  their  wires  attached  to  every  govern- 
ment leg  and  arm  in  the  country,  and  I feel  like  a man  lying  by,  bound 
hand  and  foot,  watching  our  children  being  criminally  assaulted.  The 
money  the  government  spends  on  us  might  as  well  be  chucked  into  the 
Pacific.” 

“ To  say  nothing  of  squandering  on  one  student  what  would  easily 
suffice  for  three,”  I put  in. 

“ Caramba,  it  is  true ! In  Ann  Arbor  life  is  calm  and  quiet ; but  you 
ought  to  see  what  some  of  the  betados  who  are  sent  to  Paris  and  Rome 
bring  back  with  them  ! Valgame  Dios  ! ” 

The  valley  of  Cajabamba  leans  decidedly  to  the  west,  whence  the 
next  day  was  largely  one  of  mounting.  But  the  region  is  so  high  that 
climbing  was  not  laborious  in  the  invigorating  mountain  air  that  cuts 
into  the  lungs  like  strong  wine ; and  even  a man  inclined  to  that 
frailty  could  not  have  felt  lonely  with  so  much  of  the  world  spread 
out  in  plain  sight  about  him.  There  were  few  long  spaces  without 
houses  or  pack-trains.  Once  I fell  in  with  a government  chasqui  driv- 
ing a horse  and  an  ass  laden  with  sacks  of  mail,  among  which  stood 

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DRAWBACKS  OF  THE  TRAIL 


out  one  marked  conspicuously:  ^*0feigrF”  The  correspondence,  he 

assured  me,  was  not  bound  for  the  “ exterior,”  but  was  merely  local 
matter  between  towns  of  the  route  that  had  been  farmed  out  to 
him,  a statement  that  was  confirmed  at  the  next  post-office. 

A mighty  crack  in  the  earth,  into  and  out  of  which  the  trail  zig- 
zagged like  some  badly  wounded  creature,  marked  my  exit  at  last  from 
the  department  of  Cajamarca  into  that  of  Libertad.  The  ancient  Inca 
highway  is  said  to  have  followed  this  same  route  over  these  high,  un- 
dulating plains,  but  there  were  no  certain  vestiges  of  it.  In  the  late 
afternoon  I burst  suddenly  out  upon  a broad  view  of  the  famous  old 
city  of  Huamachuco,  much  like  Quito  in  setting,  though  more  dreary, 
backed  by  a ragged,  black  range,  half  cut  off  by  a nearer  slope,  that 
might  have  been  Pichincha  itself,  the  two  peaks  streaked  with  the  first 
snow  I had  seen  since  leaving  central  Ecuador. 

Traverso  had  given  me  a note  of  introduction  to  his  compadre,  Dr. 
Alva,  the  medico  titular  of  Huamachuco.  As  government  doctor,  the 
only  physician,  indeed,  within  two  hard  days’  ride  in  any  direction,  he 
drew  — theoretically,  at  least  — a salary  of  $150  a month,  exceeding 
even  that  of  the  haughty  subprefect.  The  “ son  ” of  a hamlet  far  up 
in  the  hills,  he  was  a plain,  earnest,  little  man  with  a heart  several 
times  larger  than  the  average  of  his  fellow-countrymen.  From  his 
lips  the  stereotyped  “ Here  you  are  in  your  own  house  ’’  had  real  mean- 
ing. His  library  included  Spanish  editions  of  Taine,  Nietzsche,  Emer- 
son— and  Roosevelt;  his  phonograph  was  of  high  grade  and  his 
records  well  chosen.  Edison  was  his  ideal  of  manhood  — indeed,  a 
straw  vote  in  the  Andes  would  certainly  show  the  “ wizard  of  Orange  ” 
the  most  popular  American  — and  he  was  wont  to  boast  jokingly  that 
his  own  name  was  the  same  as  one  of  those  of  the  inventor,  “ showing 
that  some  of  our  ancestors  were  the  same.”  Toward  the  end  of  my 
stay  I discovered  that  the  doctor,  having  installed  me  in  his  well-fur- 
nished “ guest-room,”  was  himself  huddling  out  the  cold  nights  on  a 
bag  of  straw  and  a wooden  table  in  the  mud  den  behind  his  “ office.” 

It  was  not  until  we  had  grown  rather  well  acquainted  that  Dr.  Alva 
confided  to  me  the  fact  that  he  had  “ worked  his  way  ” through  the 
medical  school  of  Lima,  “ even  acting  as  waiter,  senor,  in  a fonda, 
and  working  in  the  summer  like  any  peon.  But  don’t  whisper  a word 
of  this  to  anyone  in  Peru,”  he  implored,  as  if  he  suddenly  regretted 
having  taken  me  into  his  confidence. 

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VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


“ Up  in  my  country  those  of  us  who  did  that  are  inclined  to  boast 
of  it,”  I laughed. 

“ Ah,  si,  senor,  I know,”  he  answered  in  an  undertone,  glancing 
cautiously  about  him,  “ I know;  even  Tomas  Alva  Edison  was  a news- 
boy. But  if  Huamachuco  ever  hears  of  it  I shall  be  a social  outcast, 
ranked  with  the  Indians  of  the  market-place.” 

Huamachuco  derives  its  name,  if  local  authority  is  trustworthy, 
from  the  Quichua  words  huama  (snow)  and  chuco  (cap),  the  peak 
behind  the  town  having  in  earlier  centuries  been  completely  snow- 
topped.  It  is  the  “ Guamachuco  ” of  Prescott,  to  which  Hernando 
Pizarro  was  sent  soon  after  the  capture  of  Atahuallpa,  to  investigate 
the  rumor  that  an  army  was  being  raised  to  rescue  the  imperial  prisoner. 
Even  to-day  its  population  is  largely  Indian,  among  whom  the  chewing 
of  coca  leaves  is  general  — the  first  place  south  of  Almaguer  in  Colom- 
bia of  which  this  could  be  said. 

But  the  Huamachuco  of  to-day  does  not  exactly  coincide  with  that 
of  Pizarro’s  time.  The  effete  descendants  of  a more  hardy  race  have 
crawled  down  into  a sheltering  valley,  leaving  uninhabited  the  ancient 
“ city  of  the  Gentiles  ” on  the  mountain  above.  A local  editor,  ap- 
parently for  no  better  reason  than  the  pleasure  of  basking  in  a gringo 
smile,  offered  to  serve  me  as  guide.  A stony  road  flanked  ever  higher 
along  a perpendicular  rock-wall,  then  rose  and  fell  over  lofty  undula- 
tions, and  at  some  six  miles  from  the  modern  town  brought  us  to  the 
first  ruins.  Far  below,  across  a deep  quebrada,  lay,  like  a relief  map, 
the  great  rectangle  of  a ruined  city,  in  perfect  squares,  the  roofless 
stone  gables  standing  forth  in  fantastic  array  above  a forest  of  low 
trees.  This  was  Viracochapampa,  or  “ Plain  of  the  Nobles,”  the  resi- 
dent city  at  the  time  of  the  Conquest.  Through  its  broad  central  street 
passed  the  great  Inca  highway  from  Quito  to  Cuzco. 

But  that  was  the  least  important  part  of  ancient  Huamachuco.  Here 
on  the  barren  mountain-top  stood  in  olden  times  Marca-Huamachuco, 
protecting  the  dwelling-place  on  the  stony  plain  below.  Above  the 
modern  town  are  still  to  be  found  remnants  of  the  cuchilla,  or  stone 
trough  by  which  the  ancient  race  brought  water  to  this  lofty  summit  by 
some  system  that  has  been  lost  in  the  haze  of  time.  About  us,  as  we 
advanced,  rose  ruin  after  stone  ruin  of  what  had  evidently  been  an 
elaborate  series  of  fortresses.  These  spread  mile  upon  mile  across  the 
rugged,  undulating  tableland,  some  densely  interwoven  with  brambles 
and  impenetrable  thickets,  all  surrounded  by  the  utter  silence  of  a world 
long  since  abandoned  by  man  and  brute.  Indeed,  the  place  was  less 

280 


DRAWBACKS  OF  THE  TRAIL 


remarkable  for  its  construction  than  for  the  vast  extent  of  the  ruins. 
Several  large  edifices,  square  or  triangular  in  shape,  were  built  of  huge 
blocks  of  stone,  still  in  the  same  form  in  which  they  might  have  been 
found  as  mountain  boulders,  and,  unlike  the  fortress  of  Ingapirca,  no- 
where nicely  fitted  together.  On  the  contrary,  nearly  every  joint  was 
filled  in  with  chips  of  stone,  and  in  the  thick  interior  walls  had  been 
used  a sort  of  crude  concrete,  now  mere  gravelly  mud  that  could  be 
picked  out  with  the  fingers.  Whether  Marca-Huamachuco  was  built 
by  an  earlier  people,  or  by  a more  careless  tribe  of  the  race  that  left  be- 
hind the  cut-stone  palaces  of  Cuzco,  their  method  of  construction  did 
not  make  for  durability.  The  ruins  were  all  serrated  and  tooth- 
shaped, with  only  here  and  there  a jagged  point  suggesting  the  original 
height,  the  whole  cutting  the  far-off  horizon  with  a fantastic,  broken 
sky-line.  An  enormous  wall  had  evidently  once  surrounded  the  en- 
tire peak,  and  beyond,  set  close  together,  was  a series  of  almost  round 
fortresses,  each  of  three  stone  walls,  one  inside  the  other.  One  more 
carefully  constructed  edifice  gave  evidence  of  having  been  the  chief 
palace,  and  from  it  stretched  an  unobstructed  view  of  all  the  surround- 
ing landscape,  in  which  an  advancing  enemy  might  have  been  sighted 
league  upon  league  away  in  any  direction. 

It  was  in  Huamachuco  that  the  first  hint  of  what  later  proved  to  be 
amoebic  dysentery  overtook  me,  recalling  to  memory  the  medicine-case 
I had  abandoned  in  Cuenca  as  a useless  burden.  A disturbing  lack  of 
energy  settled  upon  me,  my  appetite  failed  — a startling  symptom,  in- 
deed — and  I felt  as  if  I had  inadvertently  swallowed  one  of  the  largest 
ruins  of  Marca-Huamachuco.  It  was  with  no  rousing  pleasure,  there- 
fore, that  I set  off,  laden  with  hard-boiled  eggs  and  a supply  of  the 
stony  local  bread,  on  tbe  lonely  twelve-league  tramp  that  intervenes 
between  the  residence  of  Dr.  Alva  and  the  next  town. 

Four  leagues  south,  the  well-marked  road  swung  to  the  right  and, 
wading  the  shallow  Huamachuco  river,  I struck  off  for  Trujillo  and 
comparative  civilization  on  the  coast.  The  faint  path  to  the  left  bore 
me  even  higher  across  an  uninhabited  world,  dreary  with  its  endless  ex- 
panse of  dead-yellow  ichu.  Here  were  distinct  remnants  of  the  old 
Inca  highway.  For  several  miles  across  the  undulating  paramo  the 
way  lay  between  two  rows  of  stones,  set  upright  a considerable  distance 
apart,  and  enclosing  a space  wide  enough  for  six  or  seven  carriages, 
had  they  existed,  to  pass  abreast.  If,  as  the  inhabitants  of  the  region 
assert,  this  is  a good  example  of  that  great  military  highway  of  the 
Incas,  the  descriptions  of  chroniclers  and  historians  have  far  outdone 

281 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


the  reality.  Gomara  reports  it  “ twenty-five  feet  wide,  cut  in  a straight 
line  from  the  living  rock,  or  made  of  stone  and  lime,  turning  aside 
neither  for  mountains  nor  lakes.”  Prescott  speaks  of  “ highways  care- 
fully constructed  of  cut  slabs  of  freestone  and  porphyry,”  which  only 
proves  how  incompetent  to  judge  things  South  American  is  the  most 
competent  man  who  has  not  been  there  in  person.  Those  who  have 
visited  Spain  know  how  easily  the  title  “ camino  ” is  granted,  and  the 
Conquistadores,  like  the  Peruvians  of  to-day,  having  in  many  cases 
probably  never  seen  a real  road,  had  no  means  of  comparison.  Cer- 
tainly this  Inca  highway  had  nothing  to  justify  the  extravagant  praise 
of  those  who  compared  it  to  the  old  Roman  roads.  The  most  that  had 
been  done  in  the  way  of  road  building  was  to  clear  the  plain  of  loose 
rocks  — in  conspicuous  contrast  to  the  modern  Peruvians,  who  look 
upon  a road  as  a convenient  place  to  toss  the  stones  picked  up  in  their 
fields.  Stone-heaps  here  and  there  along  the  Andes  mark  forever  the 
routes  of  travel  of  Inca  days,  but  they  are  chiefly  achapetas,  piles 
thrown  up  by  travelers,  who  tossed  upon  them,  as  votary  offering,  a 
cud  of  coca.  Of  the  tambos,  rest-houses  maintained  at  frequent  inter- 
vals by  the  imperial  government,  like  the  dak  bungalows  of  India,  not 
even  the  ruins  of  one  in  a hundred  remain  standing,  and  the  traveler 
of  to-day  is  far  more  exposed  to  the  elements  than  in  the  times  of  the 
Incas. 

The  Andes  rise  ever  higher  from  north  to  south  and  from  west  to 
east,  whence  I was  far  above  Huamachuco  when  I dragged  myself  into 
the  “ Vaqueria  Angasmarca,”  a cluster  of  cobblestone  hovels  barely 
four  feet  high,  home  of  an  Indian  cow-guard,  in  one  of  the  most 
dreary,  stony  settings  in  South  America.  Unable  to  get  even  hot 
water,  I dared  not  eat  the  heavy  fiambre  I carried.  I had  huddled  for 
hours  on  a stone  under  the  projecting  roof  when,  after  dark,  the 
vaquero  himself  rode  in  from  Huamachuco.  Having  been  a soldier, 
trained  to  a bit  less  immobility  of  temperament  than  his  mate,  he  was 
partly  cajoled,  partly  deceived,  into  ordering  her  to  serve  me  a gourdful 
of  potato  soup,  prepared  under  circumstances  better  imagined  than  de- 
scribed. For  a long  time  he  replied  with  dogged,  apathetic  persistence 
that  he  “ only  gave  posado  in  the  corredor,”  but  I succeeded  at  last  in 
inducing  him  to  furnish  me  a ragged  blanket  in  a corner  of  his  own  sty, 
on  the  earth  floor  of  which  huddled  the  entire  family  and  the  customary 
menagerie  of  small  animals. 

The  traveler  who  crawls  out,  blue  with  cold,  after  a night  in  one  of 
these  cobble  caves  of  the  highland  Indian,  to  squat  against  the  eastern 

282 


DRAWBACKS  OF  THE  TRAIL 


wall  until  a gourd  of  warm  water,  savored  with  corn  and  the  dung-fuel 
over  which  it  is  slowly  half-heated,  is  thrust  out  at  him,  no  longer  won- 
ders that  the  aboriginals  of  the  Andes  worshipped  the  sun.  Every 
step  of  that  day  of  excruciating  climbs  and  stony  descents,  across 
dreary  paramos  on  which  I several  times  lost  my  way,  was  a bitter 
struggle ; for  all  the  demands  of  the  will,  my  legs  could  not  push  me 
forward  two  miles  an  hour,  and  ever  and  anon  they  seemed  to  turn  to 
straw  and  dropped  me  suddenly  to  the  ground.  All  the  visible  world 
lay  high  and  treeless  now,  with  touches  of  snow  on  several  black, 
shark-tooth  peaks  of  the  Cordillera  to  the  eastward.  During  the  day 
I had  passed  several  more  remnants  of  the  old  Inca  highway,  two  con- 
tinuous lines  of  weather-blackened  upright  stones  set  far  apart  on 
either  side  of  a space  a full  half-block  wide.  Toward  sunset  the  trail 
began  to  descend  into  a stony  river-valley,  far  down  which  I made 
out  a tiled  building  among  eucalyptus  trees.  A passing  horseman  care- 
lessly answered  my  question,  while  more  engrossed  in  my  appearance, 
by  assuring  me  it  was  the  hacienda  house  I was  seeking ; and  I toiled  a 
half-hour  up  the  mountainside  to  it,  only  to  have  the  solitary  Indian 
female  who  occupied  it  point  out  far  below,  in  the  valley  of  the  river, 
the  “ patron’s  ” house  of  the  “ Hacienda  Angasmarca.” 

It  was  the  most  imposing  country  dwelling  I had  yet  seen  in  Peru ; a 
large  village  and  two  churches  clustered  about  it,  the  entrance  like 
that  to  some  rough  old  medieval  palace,  the  swarms  of  dependents 
carrying  the  mind  back  to  feudal  days.  Around  an  immense  flower 
and  shrub-grown  patio,  in  which  Indian  hostlers  were  struggling  to  un- 
load a score  of  mules  and  horses,  were  some  thirty  rooms,  each  with  a 
number  above  the  door.  I did  not  learn  whether  it  was  the  custom  of 
the  owner  to  collect  hotel  charges,  but  the  establishment  was  con- 
ducted in  as  heartless  and  impersonal  a manner  as  if  he  did.  He  was 
a snarly  old  invalid  who  crawled  about  with  a cane,  growling  orders  to 
his  cringing  Indians,  and  too  much  taken  up  with  his  own  infirmities 
to  waste  sympathy  on  others.  With  a grunt  he  thrust  my  letter  of  in- 
troduction into  a pocket,  ordering  an  Indian  to  unlock  one  of  the  num- 
bered rooms.  Stagnant  with  the  atmosphere  of  a cheap  hotel,  it  con- 
tained a bed  with  leather  springs,  a billowy  mattress,  and  a sack  of 
ichu  as  pillow,  and  only  after  a long  struggle  did  I obtain  a bowl 
of  soup  filled  with  tough  beef  and  half-cooked  yuca  and  potatoes,  a 
dish  barely  endurable  to  a strong  man  in  full  health.  It  was  late 
next  morning  before  infinite  patience  won  me  a bowl  of  hot  milk, 
and  I dragged  myself  away  almost  due  north.  Across  the  world 

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VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


south  of  “ Angasmarca  ” yawned  a bottomless  valley,  beyond  which  a 
rocky  mountain-wall  rose  to  the  very  heavens.  The  road  which  should 
have  followed  in  that  direction  was  left  to  sneak  out  like  some  hunted 
thing  for  a vast  detour,  even  before  it  began  to  crawl  away  eastward  at 
right  angles  to  the  way  I would  have  gone.  At  the  outset  was  a la- 
borious, stony  climb,  from  the  summit  of  which  the  “ Hacienda  Tulpo  ” 
lay  in  plain  sight,  but  across  one  of  those  heartbreaking  gashes  in  the 
earth  so  frequent  in  the  Andes.  On  the  left  stood  sharp,  stark  snow- 
peaks  of  the  Cordillera,  which  seemed  to  grow  mightier  with  each  day 
southward.  Noon  had  long  since  passed,  yet  there  were  barely  eight 
miles  behind  me  when  I entered  the  general  store  of  an  hacienda  build- 
ing forming  a hollow  square  around  a dreary  barnyard.  The  shop- 
keeper announced  himself  the  owner  of  the  estate  — plainly  by  poetic 
license.  There  is  a careful  graduation  of  caste  in  the  Andes  that  makes 
it  easy  for  the  experienced  traveler  to  set  any  man’s  place  in  the  local 
society.  This  fellow’s  dress,  color,  his  familiar  yet  commanding  man- 
ner toward  the  Indians  who  sneaked  in  all  that  Saturday  afternoon  to 
dawdle  about  the  counter  and  buy  bits  of  trash,  draughts  of  native 
“ rot-gut,”  anything  the  place  afforded  except  what  might  have  been  of 
some  use  to  them,  generally  on  credit,  thus  lengthening  their  slavery  to 
the  estate,  all  gave  the  lie  to  his  assertion.  But  for  all  his  posing,  he 
turned  out  a kindly  fellow.  He  not  only  sold  me  a half-dozen  eggs  — 
in  itself  a great  kindness  in  the  Andes  — but  dragged  down  from  a 
shelf  a sort  of  chafing-dish  and  light-boiled  them.  When  I had  drunk 
these,  surrounded  by  a solid  wall  of  stony-faced  Indians  who  seemed  to 
consider  the  feat  remarkable,  I still  could  not  bestir  myself  to  push  on. 
By  and  by  my  eyes,  wandering  aimlessly  over  the  stock  that  covered 
two  walls  to  the  ceiling,  caught  sight  of  a familiar  ten-cent  can  of  Amer- 
ican tomatoes.  I bought  them  at  sixty  cents.  Long  after  an  old 
woman  had  carried  off  the  precious  empty  can,  the  shopkeeper  spent 
all  the  leisure  left  him  by  the  sluggish  flow  of  now  half-intoxicated 
Indians  in  thumbing  over  great  sheaves  of  foreign  bills  of  lading,  and 
at  length  handed  me  thirty  cents,  with  the  announcement  that  he  had 
inadvertently  charged  me  for  the  “whole  shipment” — of  two  cans! 

When  the  dreary  afternoon  had  at  last  dragged  its  leaden  way  into 
the  past  tense  and  chill  sunset  was  creeping  across  this  lofty  world, 
I mentioned  to  the  shopkeeper  that  I needed  a spot  on  which  to  spend 
the  night.  The  idea  evidently  had  never  occurred  to  him.  The  estate 
was  mine,  and  all  the  wonders  thereof  — but  for  all  that  two  more 
endless  hours  passed  before  a drink-saucy  Indian  led  me  to  an  icy 

284 


DRAWBACKS  OF  THE  TRAIL 


harness-room  and  pointed  out  two  bare  saddle-pads  on  the  earth 
floor. 

Certainly  that  man  is  a fool  who  sets  out  on  a trip  down  the  Andes 
for  pleasure;  for  after  the  first  joys  of  roughing  it  have  worn  off,  no 
more  monotonously  pleasureless  existence  is  conceivable.  There  is,  to 
be  sure,  a certain  feeling  of  exclusiveness,  a certain  satisfaction  in  liv- 
ing through  hardships,  of  moving  by  one’s  own  efforts  over  those  parts 
of  the  earth  where  modern  means  of  transportation  are  unknown ; but 
even  this  soon  wears  off,  and  with  the  dreary  sameness  of  each  day 
the  journey  becomes  chiefly  a waste  of  time  and  effort,  and  a never- 
ending  disappointment. 

In  the  morning  I crawled  away  along  a world  growing  ever  higher, 
until  suddenly  it  fell  abruptly  into  a chasm  out-chasming  anything  I 
had  yet  seen  in  my  worst  nightmares.  Across  it,  so  high  even  from 
this  height  that  it  seemed  not  of  our  world,  a town  was  pitched  on  the 
very  tip  of  a gashed  and  haggard  range.  Fortunately  my  route 
seemed  to  lead  off  down  the  valley,  and  I was  finding  some  grains  of 
comfort  in  not  having  to  ascend  to  that  heavenly  dwelling-place  of  man, 
whatever  it  might  be  called,  when  a passing  horseman  sapped  my  last 
drop  of  ambition  by  telling  me  it  was  Pallasca  — exactly  the  place  in 
which  I must  spend  the  night ! 

A long  time  had  passed  before  I coaxed  myself  to  creep  slowly  on, 
avoiding  the  view  of  the  task  before  me  as  a criminal  about  to  be  exe- 
cuted might  shade  his  eyes  from  the  scaffold.  An  unconscionable 
distance  down  in  the  bottomless  intervening  valley,  yet  still  high,  I 
met  the  first  foreign  tramp  I had  yet  seen  on  the  road  in  South  Amer- 
ica. He  was  an  Austrian  of  fifty,  looking  in  his  matted,  lusterless  hair 
and  beard,  and  his  drooping  rags,  like  a corpse  that  had  arisen  for  a 
stroll. 

“ Gehen  Sie  nicht  weiter  — Go  no  further  south,”  he  pleaded  weakly. 
“ There  everyone  is  dying  of  dysentery.  Turn  back  with  me  to  Tru- 
jillo and  humanity.” 

His  illness  had  reached  that  stage  when  the  invalid  sees  the  leering 
head  of  disease  rising  on  all  sides,  and  fancies  he  may  run  away  from 
what  he  carries  with  him.  I could  not,  naturally,  abandon  a plan  of 
years’  standing  merely  because  of  a temporary  disability,- and  when 
we  had  exchanged  some  bits  of  road  information  each  crawled  slowly 
on  his  way. 

In  the  hamlet  of  Mollepata,  near  the  bottom  of  the  quebrada,  an  old 
woman  stirred  herself  to  brew  me  some  herb  tea,  into  which  she  put 

285 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


a branch  of  ajenjo  (wormwood)  with  the  assurance  that  this  was  a 
quick  and  certain  cure  for  my  ailment.  The  descent  had  been  bad 
enough ; the  climb  out  of  that  breathless  gash  in  the  earth  was  probably 
the  most  dismal  experience  of  my  career ; I had  not,  to  that  day,  nor  do 
I expect  again  during  this  life,  to  accomplish  a more  bitter  task  than 
that  struggle  in  intermittent  rain,  under  my  leaden  load  and  Turkish- 
bath  poncho,  from  the  tablachaca,  or  earth-covered  stick-bridge  across 
the  gorge-cut  river  forming  the  northern  boundary  of  the  department 
of  Ancachs,  to  heaven-hung  Pallasca.  To  make  matters  worse,  the 
natives  were  united  in  the  assertion  that  the  source  of  my  trouble  was 
my  habit  of  drinking  at  streams  along  the  way ; that  at  this  altitude  the 
water  was  not  only  too  cold,  but  held  in  solution  many  minerals  that 
made  it  unsafe.  Long  afterward  I had  reason  to  believe  that  this  had 
little  to  do  with  the  matter.  But  ready  at  the  time  to  grasp  at  any 
straw,  I threw  away  the  film-tin  that  had  served  me  as  drinking  vessel, 
resolved  that  not  another  drop  of  “ raw  ” water  should  pass  my 
lips  — or  at  least  my  throat.  The  resolution  called  for  every  ounce  of 
will-power.  One  of  the  chief  pleasures  of  a walking  trip  had  always 
been  to  quench  my  thirst  whenever  opportunity  offered.  Now  the 
mountain  rivulets  that  babbled  down  across  my  trail  were  tantalizing 
beyond  belief,  and  I would  gladly  have  given  a gold  sovereign  — as 
long  as  they  lasted  — to  have  been  able  to  drink  my  fill  at  each  with 
impunity.  Worst  of  all,  there  were  no  substitutes  for  water  to  be  had, 
neither  fruits,  prepared  drinks,  nor  any  other  relief  from  torture.  On 
the  day  we  sailed  from  Panama  a Zone  doctor  had  warned  Hays  and 
me,  as  the  first  and  primary  rule  of  the  journey  before  us,  always  to 
boil  our  water.  He  little  guessed  the  difficulty,  not  to  say  impossibility, 
of  obeying  that  apparently  simple  commandment  in  the  Andes. 

Black  night  had  long  since  fallen  when  I dragged  myself  into  the 
central  plaza  of  Pallasca,  silent  and  dark  except  in  the  densely  packed, 
candle-lighted  church.  A dimly  illuminated  shop  on  a far  corner 
proved  to  be  a tavern.  My  thirst  had  reached  the  point  where  drink 
was  imperative,  though  the  sentence  were  sudden  death.  I ran  my 
eye  over  the  shelves. 

“ There  is  wheesky  ingles,”  wheedled  the  wooden-brained  keeper, 
“and  rhum  jamaica,  or  French  absinthe,  or  . . .” 

“ Have  you  anything  non-alcoholic?”  I croaked. 

“ Como  no,  senor ! There  is  wine,  and  beer  from  Lima  . . .” 

In  South  America  anything  short  of  forty-percent  alcohol  does  not 
count  as  such;  even  the  law  does  not  rate  beer  and  wine  “alcoholic 

286 


DRAWBACKS  OF  THE  TRAIL 


liquors.”  There  being  nothing  better,  I pointed  out  a bottle  bearing 
the  stamp  of  a Lima  brewery. 

The  sentence  was  not  exactly  sudden  death,  but  that  may  be  because 
I had  grown  calloused  to  similar  hardships.  This  Peruvian  imitation 
of  a German  “ dark  ” beer  was  thick  and  black  as  crude  molasses,  bit- 
ter as  cascarilla  bark,  and  more  nauseating  than  old-fashioned  medi- 
cine. With  only  the  edge  of  my  thirst  blunted,  I forced  the  rest  of  the 
bottle  upon  a bystander,  not  maliciously,  but  because  I knew  that  a life- 
time in  the  Andes  had  hardened  him  to  anything;  and  turned  to  the 
question  of  lodging. 

“ You  come  right  along  with  me,”  cried  the  grateful  bystander, 
smacking  his  all-enduring  lips.  “ You  will  stop  with  the  sehor  cura, 
like  all  travelers  of  importance.” 

But  the  sehor  cura  was  in  no  condition  to  receive  guests.  In  his 
large,  over-furnished  parlor  around  the  corner  the  padre  lay  on  a 
couch,  the  slouch  hat  over  his  red-bandaged  head  and  a two-weeks’ 
lack  of  shave  giving  him  a startling  resemblance  to  the  Spanish  bandits 
of  operatic  fancy. 

“ No,  compadre ; I am  sick,  and  I cannot  give  lodging,”  he  replied  to 
every  plea  of  my  officious  sponsor. 

The  several  persons  in  the  room  entered  into  a whispered  confer- 
ence. Some  time  later  I was  aroused  from  my  lethargy,  and  my 
cicerone  and  a light-haired  youth  led  the  way  across  the  black  plaza 
and  up  a steep,  cobbled  street  which  my  legs  all  but  refused  to  navigate 
under  my  heavy  load  — for  though  he  would  not  leave  a man  who  had 
treated  him  to  the  luxury  of  a glass  of  beer  from  the  capital  at  a fabu- 
lous price  until  he  had  seen  him  safely  housed,  neither  the  bystander 
nor  his  companion  could  sink  their  baggy-kneed  caste  to  the  depth  of 
carrying  a bundle  in  the  public  street,  even  on  a dark  night. 

When  morning  dawned  I found  myself  rolled  up  in  a heap  of  blan- 
kets on  the  earth  floor  of  a long-disused  parlor.  Hours  passed  without 
a human  being  appearing.  I pulled  myself  together  and  shuffled  out 
into  the  patio  of  an  immense,  dilapidated  house  at  the  tiptop  of  the 
town,  overlooking  half  a world  and  swept  by  all  the  winds  of  heaven. 
Pallasca  has  been  likened  to  alforjas,  so  like  a pair  of  saddlebags  on 
the  rump  of  a pack-animal  does  it  hang  down  the  two  sides  of  a lofty 
nose  of  the  range.  Across  the  void,  deep-blue  in  spite  of  the  penetrat- 
ing glare  of  the  Andean  sunshine,  the  Cordillera  had  tumbled  her 
mountains  recklessly  in  a tumultuous  heap,  as  if  the  Builder  of  the 
world  had  left  here  his  surplus  of  materials.  The  Andes  have  little  of 

287 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


the  color  and  varied  charm  of  the  Alps ; but  in  awesome  grandeur,  and 
repulsive,  savage  mightiness  they  dwarf  the  latter  by  comparison.  In 
a room  down  on  the  sunken  street  on  which  opened  the  patio  zaguan, 
the  light-haired  youth  and  his  brother  kept  the  town  drugstore.  They 
were  the  sons  of  a German  who  had  married  in  Peru,  yet  only  their 
more  robust  frames  and  greater  physical  virility  distinguished  them 
from  the  common  run  of  natives ; in  temperament  they  were  as  thor- 
oughly what  the  Canal  Zoner  calls  “ Spig  ” as  the  most  enemic  of  their 
fellow-townsmen.  The  older  was  an  amateur  doctor  — with  the  ac- 
cent on  the  adjective  — the  only  one  for  scores  of  miles  around.  He 
prepared  me  a half-dozen  oblcas, — those  saucer-shaped  capsules  of  the 
Andean  pharmacopoeia  — of  bismuth,  prescribed- a diet  of  chochoca 
molida  — the  Ouichua-Spanish  name  for  a thin  cornmeal  gruel  — 
which  might  be  substituted  by  chuno  ingles,  a sickly-sweet  liquid  starch 
— or  wheat  or  rice  soup,  and  assured  me  that  I would  be  completely 
recovered  in  the  morning.  All  the  articles  of  diet  were  contingent  on 
the  possibility  of  getting  the  ingredients,  which  in  the  Andes  is  a 
distinct  contingency.  For  thirst  I was  advised  to  take  only  boiled 
water  with  cinnamon  or  cimarruba  bark;  but  even  to  get  the  former 
cost  a constant  struggle  with  the  apathetic  servants,  and  the  necessity 
of  dragging  myself  down  to  the  stream  on  a corner  of  the  plaza  to 
cool  the  boiling  pot. 

Later  in  the  day,  while  I lay  contemplating  the  immense  distance 
across  the  room,  a young  rag-patch  came  to  say  that  the  cura  wished  to 
see  me.  The  mere  novelty  of  a man  of  the  cloth  desiring  my  presence 
was  so  astonishing  that  it  lent  a bit  of  stiffness  to  my  legs.  I rose  and 
wandered  down  across  the  main  plaza,  from  the  further  side  of  which 
the  world  falls  precipitously  away  into  unfathomable  void. 

The  unshaven  papist  still  wore  his  slouch  hat,  and  by  day  his  bandit- 
like aspect  was  increased  by  a complexion  like  unpolished  chamois- 
skin.  He  motioned  me  to  a chair  beneath  the  lithograph  of  a ravish- 
ing nude  figure  advertising  a foreign  brand  of  cigarettes,  and  trusted, 
with  all  the  smoothness  of  which  the  Spanish  tongue  is  capable,  that 
I had  not  misunderstood  his  mhospitality  of  the  night  before.  Grad- 
ually I turned  the  conversation  to  the  history  of  his  native  region.  He 
had  made  a serious  study  of  the  pre-Conquest  period,  and  was  sure  that 
the  Indians  lived  in  just  such  unwashed  misery  under  the  Incas,  as  to- 
day. Only,  as  each  group  of  ten  had  its  commander,  who  set  its  tasks 
and  carried  his  investigations  into  the  very  bosom  of  the  family,  they 

288 


Detail  of  the  ruins  of  “ Marca-Huamachuco, *’  high  up  on  the  mountain  above  the  modern 
town  of  that  name.  They  are  reputed  to  be  at  least  1000  years  old 


Pallasca,  to  which  I climbed  from  one  of  the  mightiest  quebradas  in  the  Andes,  sits  on  the 
tiptop  of  the  world  and  falls  sheer  away  at  a corner  of  its  plaza  into  a fathomless  void 


DRAWBACKS  OF  THE  TRAIL 


were  not  then  so  unspeakably  lazy.  I had  started  to  take  my  leave 
after  some  desultory  remarks  on  my  journey,  during  which  he  desired 
to  know  if  I had  walked  all  the  way  from  Europe,  when  the  priest 
remarked : 

“ Before  going  you  will  allow  me  to  give  you  a little  remembrance?  ” 

“ Como  no ! Gracias,”  I answered,  fancying  the  good-hearted  old 
fellow  was  about  to  favor  me  with  a tin  crucifix  or  a bottle  of  holy 
water. 

He  sat  up  slowly  and,  pulling  open  a drawer  of  his  massive  home- 
made desk,  took  out  five  silver  soles  ($2.50),  and  held  them  toward  me. 

“ Mil  gracias,  no,  senor,”  I cried  in  astonishment. 

“ Tomaselos  — take  them  as  a memento,”  he  persisted,  attempting 
to  thrust  the  coins  into  my  pocket.  Plainly  he  regarded  my  refusal  a 
mere  preliminary  formality  to  save  my  face.  So  ingrained  is  the 
Latin-American  notion  that  no  man  exerts  himself  physically,  except 
under  compulsion,  that,  for  all  my  explanations,  he  still  cherished  the 
idea  that  I traveled  on  foot  because  I had  not  the  means  to  travel 
otherwise.  Nor  did  I avoid  his  proposed  charity  without  a great  waste 
of  flowery  Castilian,  and  for  all  that  left  him  somewhat  offended. 
Even  the  sons  of  the  misled  German  could  not  be  made  to  under- 
stand why  I had  refused  the  proposed  benefaction.  “ Andarines  ” of 
the  Peyrounel  variety  have  given  these  isolated  towns  of  the  Andes  the 
impression  that  all  foreigners  arriving  on  foot  were  “ living  on  the 
country.”  Tramps,  in  our  sense  of  the  word,  are  unknown  in  the 
Andes.  The  few  foreign  “ beach-combers  ” who  reach  Peru  rarely 
get  beyond  Lima,  and  the  Indians  still  cling  to  the  Inca  rule  — though 
they  may  no  longer  know  that  an  Inca  ever  existed  — of  each  man 
sticking  pertinaciously  to  his  own  birthplace.  It  is  as  impossible  for 
the  American  to  realize  the  absolute  lack  of  anything  approaching 
wanderlust  in  the  Andean,  and  his  dread  of  moving  away  from  his 
native  pueblo,  as  it  is  for  the  Indian  to  understand  why  the  American 
is  so  far  from  home.  Even  among  the  more  or  less  educated  officials 
I could  not  shake  off  the  title  “ andarin.”  More  than  one  rural 
“ authority  ” showed  himself  aggrieved  because  I did  not  ask  for  his 
testimonal,  seal,  and  signature,  fancying  himself  slighted  as  of  too  little 
importance.  Many  another  assured  the  gaping  bystanders : 

“Ah,  ganan  un  platal,  esa  gente  — Those  fellows  win  a wad  of 
money ! When  he  gets  back,  his  government  will  give  him  a great 
prize,  at  least  300,000  soles  for  the  trip,  senores.” 

289 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


A prize,  indeed!  As  if  there  were  not  a prize  at  every  turn  of  the 
winding  trail,  in  every  new  vista  of  tumultuous  nature  under  the  clear 
metalic  blue  of  the  highland  sky ! 

I determined  to  push  on  next  morning,  for  Pallasca  was  no  nearer 
recovery  than  my  journey’s  end.  The  diluted  Germans  had  prom- 
ised to  have  an  Indian  carrier  ready  at  dawn.  But  they  were  true 
Peruvians.  The  morning  was  half  gone  when  I gave  up  in  disgust 
and  set  out  alone.  At  the  zaguan,  however,  a fishy-eyed  Indian  rose  to 
his  feet  to  say  that  he  had  been  sent  by  the  gobernador  to  “ assist  ” 
me,  and  I piled  my  bundle  upon  him  forthwith. 

Though  Pallasca  seems  to  perch  on  the  very  summit  of  the  world, 
the  trail  managed  to  find  another  range  to  climb.  Scores  of  cold, 
crystal-clear  streams  babbled  tantalizingly  across  my  path.  A cosmic 
wilderness  of  gaunt  and  haggard  mountains,  here  throwing  forward 
bare  and  repulsive  outliers,  there  weirdly  decorated  with  shadow- 
pictures  of  clouds  and  jutting  headlands,  lay  tumbled  on  every  hand 
as  far  as  the  eye  could  range.  The  Indian  chewed  coca  constantly, 
pausing  frequently  to  dip  a bit  of  lime  from  the  gourd  he  carried  at  his 
waist,  and  appeared  to  have  as  little  energy  as  I.  When  we  had 
crawled  some  six  miles,  and  a scattered  hamlet  was  visible  about  as  far 
ahead,  with  a deep  gash  of  the  earth  between,  he  began  to  complain  of 
pains,  and  finally  lay  down  in  the  trail.  I did  not  regret  the  halt,  but 
when  I had  waited  a half-hour  and  his  groans  still  sounded,  I sought  to 
urge  him  on.  It  was  useless.  Whether  he  was  really  ailing  — and 
Sunday  may  have  left  him  with  what  is  technically  known  in  sporting 
circles  as  a “ hang-over  ” — or  was  merely  taking  this  means  of  shirk- 
ing an  unwelcome  task,  now  we  were  far  enough  away  so  that  I was 
not  likely  to  return  to  complain  to  the  gobernador,  arguments  and 
threats  moved  him  exactly  as  they  would  have  the  rocks  on  which  he 
writhed.  Consigning  him  to  the  nethermost  regions,  I struggled  to  my 
feet  under  my  harness  and  staggered  on  down  the  stony  bajada. 

Hours  afterward,  utterly  exhausted  by  the  short  dozen  miles,  I en- 
tered the  mud  hamlet  of  Huandoval,  expecting  a miserable  night  on 
the  earth  floor  of  some  icy  dungeon  hut.  It  was  not  quite  so  bad  as 
that.  At  the  first  doorway  where  I paused  to  inquire  for  the  goberna- 
dor, a half-Indian  young  woman  of  unusual  Andean  intelligence  offered 
me  lodging  where  I stood.  The  baked-mud  den  was  as  dreary  as  usual, 
but  in  a corner  stood  a bare  slat  bedstead,  half-buried  under  an  im- 
mense heap  of  potatoes.  Early  as  it  was,  I spread  my  poncho  and  lay 
down,  anticipating  a welcome  repose  — only  to  discover  that  I was 

290 


DRAWBACKS  OF  THE  TRAIL 


lodged  in  the  Huandoval  telephone  exchange ! On  the  wall  hung  an 
aged  Errickson  instrument,  the  strange  vagaries  of  which  brought  the 
chola  in  upon  me  as  often  as  its  jangle  sounded.  The  place,  too, 
like  telephone  exchanges  the  world  over,  was  exceedingly  popular  with 
the  young  men  of  the  town,  and  when  my  rest  was  not  being  broken  by 
some  mistaken  call  from  another  exchange,  it  was  disrupted  by  the 
labored  wit  of  some  rural  Lothario. 

It  is  but  eight  miles  from  Huandoval  to  Cabana,  capital  of  the 
province ; yet  it  required  nine  hours  of  the  most  concentrated  effort, 
both  mental  and  physical,  to  drive  myself  over  the  low,  barren  ridge 
that  separates  the  two  towns.  The  story  of  the  next  few  days,  trivial 
in  detail,  I give  in  no  spirit  of  complaint,  but  merely  because  it  sheds 
so  direct  a light  on  the  character  of  the  Andean  Peruvian.  I had 
learned  that  there  was  a hospital  in  Huaraz,  the  department  capital, 
and  requested  the  subprefect  of  Cabana  to  use  his  authority  to  help  me 
hire  a horse,  as  he  was  in  duty  bound  to  do  by  the  official  orders  I 
carried. 

“ Pierda  cuidado,”  orated  the  thin,  angular  fellow,  peering  at  me 
with  his  short-sighted  squint,  “ the  government  will  furnish  you  a horse 
and  all  that  is  needed.” 

Nobody  wanted  the  government  to  furnish  me  anything,  but  I did 
not  stop  to  argue  the  matter.  My  entire  attention  was  taken  up  just 
then  with  resisting  the  efforts  of  the  “ authorities  ” to  throw  me  into  a 
dank  mud  den,  under  the  allegation  that  it  was  a lodging.  Fortunately 
there  was  some  one  else  than  Peruvians  in  the  town.  It  was  through 
the  village  priest  that  I won  at  last  a second-story  room  above  the  pre- 
fectura,  of  mud  floor  in  spite  of  its  elevation,  supported  on  poles  that 
yielded  to  the  tread.  He  was  a tall,  powerfully-built  Basque  of  fifty, 
with  a massive  Roman  nose  and,  in  memory  of  his  mountainland,  a 
bourn  set  awry  on  his  head  and  matching  his  long,  flowing  gown  only 
in  color.  He  had  suffered  from  the  same  ailment  during  his  first  year 
in  this  foreign  land  and  was  sure  he  knew  an  instant  cure  — and  in- 
stead of  merely  talking  about  it,  like  a native,  he  sent  a man  to  prepare 
it.  This  was  a half-bottle  of  wine  boiled  with  the  bark  of  a mountain 
tree  called  the  cimarruba;  but  whatever  effectiveness  it  might  have 
possessed  was  offset  by  the  impossibility  of  keeping  to  a proper  diet, 
or  even  of  getting  boiled  water  to  drink.  There  was  no  doctor  in 
Cabana ; yet  all  Cabana  posed  as  physicians.  Now  some  fellow  would 
drop  in  to  say,  “ the  very  best  thing  you  can  eat  is  pork-chops,”  and  he 
would  scarcely  be  out  of  sight  before  another  paused  to  assure  me  that 

291 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


pork-chops  would  kill  me  within  an  hour.  “ Eat  the  whites  of  eggs,” 
cried  another.  “ You  can  eat  almost  anything,”  asserted  the  next 
comer,  “ except  the  whites  of  eggs.”  Again  the  room  would  be  dark- 
ened by  a shadow  in  the  doorway,  and  a man  would  step  forward  to 
say,  “ Now  here  is  an  old  Indian  woman  from  up  in  the  mountains 
whose  grandfather’s  nephew  died  of  dysentery,  and  . . 

All  night  the  town  boomed  with  fireworks,  the  howling  of  dogs,  the 
bawling  of  drunken  citizens,  and  the  atrocious  uproar  of  a local  “ band,” 
for  it  was  the  eve  of  something  or  other.  Far  from  finding  the  prom- 
ised horse  waiting  for  me  at  dawn,  I did  not  see  the  shadow  of  a person 
until  after  ten.  Then  a stupid,  insolent  soldier  came  to  ask  if  I 
wanted  “ breakfast.”  At  twelve  he  had  not  returned.  I dragged  my- 
self down  to  the  plaza.  The  subprefect  and  all  his  henchmen  were 
making  merry  in  a pulperia.  I requested  him  to  have  some  one  pre- 
pare me  food,  at  any  price.  Price?  They  were  horrified!  Of  course 
they  could  not  think  of  letting  me  pay  for  anything.  I was  the  guest 
of  Cabana.  They  would  obsequiar  me  a “ magnificent  meal  ” at  once, 
cried  the  subprefect,  tying  himself  in  several  knots  in  his  excess  of 
courtesy.  What  would  I like,  roast  lamb  with  eggs,  a fine  steak  with 
. . . No,  I would  be  completely  satisfied  with  a bowl  of  gruel.  Ah; 
certainly,  I should  have  it  at  once,  and  a basket  of  fruit,  and  . . . and 
there  they  dropped  the  matter,  until  the  priest,  discovering  my  plight, 
well  on  in  the  afternoon,  sent  up  a dish  of  rice  gruel. 

Everything  does  not  come  to  him  who  waits  in  the  Andes,  and  I 
descended  again  to  mention  the  word  “ horse  ” to  the  now  reeling  sub- 
prefect. 

“ Plave  no  care,”  he  hiccoughed,  “ the  government  will  attend  to  all 
that.” 

Knowing  he  was  merely  showing  off  before  his  fellow-townsmen, 
and  that  he  would  really  let  me  lie  where  I was,  or  at  most  furnish  me 
some  crippled  Rozinante  to  carry  me  to  Tauca,  three  miles  away,  I 
refused  his  putative  charity.  He  turned  to  the  crowd  about  us  with  a 
pretense  of  being  hurt  to  the  quick,  then  sent  a boy  to  summon  the  half- 
negro gobernador,  likewise  maudlin  with  the  celebration. 

“ Since  this  senor  has  declined  my  offer  to  furnish  him  all  that  is 
needed,”  stuttered  the  offended  subprefect,  “ you  will  have  a paid 
horse,  with  saddle  and  bridle,  ready  for  him  — to-morrow.” 

“ But  why  not  to-day  ? ” I protested. 

“ Absurd,  senor ! To-day  is  the  great  Corpus  Cristi  procession  and 

292 


i 

DRAWBACKS  OF  THE  TRAIL 

you  would  not  wish  to  miss  that,  even  if  you  could  get  an  Indian  to  go 
with  you.” 

The  procession,  set  for  mid-morning,  started  soon  after  my  return 
to  my  room.  From  the  altar  of  the  church  it  encircled  the  plaza  and 
returned  whence  it  had  come.  The  route  had  been  carefully  scraped 
and  swept  — evidently  for  the  only  time  during  the  year  — by  ragged 
Indians,  forced  to  contribute  this  pious  labor  by  the  several  grades  of 
labor-dodging  “ authorities  ” howling  over  them.  Then  it  had  been 
spread  with  a long  strip  of  carpet,  after  which  came  scores  of  barefoot 
women  to  cover  it  with  a fixed  design  of  flower-petals  of  all  colors. 
Then  forth  from  the  mud  church  issued  the  Basque  priest  in  cream- 
tinted  vestments,  his  boina  and  incessant  cigarette  gone,  four  Indians 
protecting  him  from  the  dull,  sunless  day  by  a rich  canopy.  Proceeded, 
followed,  or  surrounded  by  all  the  bareheaded,  drink-maudlin  piety 
of  Cabana,  the  distressing  “ band  ” blowing  itself  wobbly-kneed,  he 
moved  slowly  forward,  only  his  own  sacred  feet  touching  the  carpet, 
women  and  children  pouncing  upon  the  flower  petals  behind  as  rapidly 
as  they  were  blessed  by  his  number-eleven  tread,  and  carrying  them 
off  as  sacred  relics.  Outwardly  he  seemed  sunk  in  the  profoundest 
depths  of  devotion,  yet  twice,  at  a sign  from  me,  he  halted  the  proces- 
sion, as  by  previous  understanding,  until  I had  caught  a picture.  Over 
the  door  of  the  towered  mud-hovel  into  which  the  throng  crowded 
after  him  were  the  half-effaced  words,  “ Haec  est  domes  dei  et  porta 
cieli.”  No  doubt  they  were  right,  but  it  would  have  been  easy  to  have 
mistaken  it  for  something  else. 

Toward  evening  the  subprefect’s  secretary  brought  a wooden-minded 
Indian  and,  introducing  him  as  the  owner  of  a horse,  called  upon  me  to 
pay  75  cents  at  once  for  the  use  of  it.  The  moment  I had  done  so  he 
produced  a still  dirtier  Indian  and,  introducing  him  as  my  “ guide,” 
demanded  that  he  be  paid  fifty  cents.  That  over,  the  secretary  men- 
tioned that  it  was  customary  to  give  a “ gratification  ” to  owner  and 
“ guide,”  that  they  might  drink  my  good  health  for  the  coming  voyage, 
at  the  end  of  which,  he  further  hinted,  it  was  costumbre  to  grant  the 
“ guide  ” a real  for  alfalfa  for  the  animal,  and  something  for  himself 
for  chicha,  and  . . . but  by  that  time  I had  withdrawn  to  my  quar- 
ters. 

At  six  in  the  morning  I was  dressed  and  ready ; at  seven  the  “ guide  ” 
came  to  know  if  he  really  should  bring  the  horse;  at  eight  I burst  in 
upon  the  sleeping  subprefect  to  know  what  had  become  of  his  boister- 

293 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


ous  promise  to  have  food  prepared  for  me  at  dawn.  A soldier  was 
sent  to  investigate.  In  due  time  he  came  back  with  the  information 
that  the  cook  was  not  up  yet.  At  nine  the  “ horse  ” arrived.  It  was  a 
wild,  hairy,  mountain  colt,  a bit  larger  than  an  ass,  which  had  never 
been  shod,  curried,  or  trimmed.  The  equipment  it  wore  was  wholly 
home-made, — a bridle  of  braided  rawhide,  without  bits,  like  that  with 
which  our  American  Indian  rides  his  mustang,  a tiny,  crude,  wooden 
saddle  with  one  thickness  of  leather  stretched  over  it,  and  huge  wooden 
box-stirrups. 

“ Now  let  nothing  worry  you,”  cried  the  subprefect,  as  I bade  fare- 
well to  the  noble  city  of  Cabana,  the  “ guide  ” trotting  on  foot  behind, 
“ I ’ll  telegraph  the  gobernador  of  Corongo  and  Huaylas  and  the  subpre- 
fect of  the  next  province  so  that  he  can  telegraph  his  governors  and 
the  prefect  in  Huaraz.  No  se  moleste,  sehor;  everything  will  be  ar- 
ranged by  the  government.” 

Hours  of  unbroken  climbing  brought  us  to  a freezing-cold  paramo, 
where  flakes  of  snow  actually  fell  and  across  the  icy  lagoons  of  which 
a wind  that  penetrated  to  the  marrow  swept  from  off  the  surrounding 
snow-peaks.  So  small  was  my  animal  that  I expected  him  to  drop 
under  me  at  every  step,  so  tiny  that  his  front  knees  constantly  knocked 
the  stirrups  off  my  feet,  and  so  wobbly  in  his  movements  that  it  was 
like  riding  a loose- jointed  hobby-horse.  At  last  we  caught  the  valley 
of  a descending  ri'ver,  and  racked  and  shaken  in  every  bone,  I rode  into 
the  plaza  of  Corongo,  the  near-Indian  population  of  which  seemed  to 
take  a bear-baiting  pleasure  in  the  predicaments  of  others.  Evidently 
this  was  no  new  characteristic,  for  Stevenson,  writing  a century  ago, 
states,  “ Corongo  is  certainly  the  most  disagreeable  Indian  town  I ever 
entered.” 

The  gobernador  sat  gossiping  in  the  mud  hut  to  which  the  telegraph 
wire  led.  He  had  not,  however,  received  any  message  from  Cabana. 
As  telegrams  cost  “ authorities  ” nothing,  I had  permitted  myself  to 
hope  that  at  least  this  promise  would  be  kept.  Having  no  other  wray  of 
getting  rid  of  me,  however,  the  towTn  ruler  led  the  way  to  his  own  hovel, 
where  long  after  dark  his  crude-mannered  females  prepared  me  a bowl 
of  gruel  with  which  to  break  an  all-day  fast. 

The  language  of  Corongo  is  chiefly  Quichua,  little  in  evidence  since 
Ecuador,  but  due  from  now  on  to  be  more  general  than  Spanish.  The 
gobernador  ran  no  unnecessary  risk  of  having  me  left  on  his  hands, 
and  by  six  next  morning  the  owner  of  a new  “ horse,”  an  even  more 
striking  caricature  of  what  he  was  supposed  to  represent  than  that  of 

294 


DRAWBACKS  OF  THE  TRAIL 


the  day  before,  had  collected  his  fee  and  that  of  the  new  “ guide.” 
These  paid,  he  began  at  once  to  complain  that  the  animal  could  not 
travel  far  without  being  shod,  a luxury  which,  like  his  master,  he  had 
thus  far  never  enjoyed.  On  the  advice  of  the  gobernador  I added  a 
half-sol  for  that  purpose.  Two  hours  later  I raised  so  effective  a pro- 
test against  further  delay  that  the  animal  was  dragged  in,  still  unshod, 
as  he  would  be  to  the  end  of  time,  and  made  ready.  The  price,  more 
or  less  exorbitant  in  honor  of  my  helpless  situation  and  gringo  blood, 
would  not  have  mattered  had  not  each  “ authority  ” stood  in  cahoots 
with  the  owners  and  wasted  my  time  and  energy  with  their  clumsy 
grafts. 

Under  a brilliant  sun  we  squirmed  away  out  of  town,  and  began  a 
sharp  descent  into  one  of  the  mightiest  desert  gorges  in  all  the  Andes, 
my  “ guide,”  a stone-headed  fellow,  speaking  only  Quichua,  who  had 
plodded  at  a horse’s  tail  all  his  days,  slapping  along  behind  me  in  his 
leather  sandals,  incessantly  feeding  himself  lime  and  coca  leaves.  It 
would  have  been  difficult  enough  for  a man  in  the  best  of  health  to  sit 
such  an  animal  standing  still  on  the  level;  let  those  who  can  imagine 
one  with  barely  the  strength  left  to  hold  himself  together  riding  him 
down  shale  hillsides,  often  at  a sharp  angle,  the  stirrups  knocked  from 
his  inert  feet  every  few  yards.  Now  the  entire  range  cutting  off  the 
world  on  the  east  was  capped  with  snow,  making  the  scorched  and 
thirsty  valley  the  more  tantalizing  by  comparison.  On  through  blazing 
noon  I clung  to  that  diminutive  brute  with  his  murderous  dog-trot,  over 
blistered,  waterless  hills,  harsh  and  repulsive  in  their  barrenness,  to 
fetch  up  at  sunset,  more  dead  than  alive,  in  Yuramarca,  a scattered 
village  of  far  more  chicha-shops  than  respectable  inhabitants.  Here, 
instead  of  the  penetrating  cold  of  Corongo,  was  to  be  feared  the 
fever  of  the  hot  lands.  The  gobernador  was  a ragged,  barefoot  Indian 
not  over  eighteen,  one  of  the  few  in  town  who  spoke  Spanish,  and  in- 
clined to  insolence  in  consequence.  He  pointed  out  a mud  cave  on 
the  plaza  as  the  stopping-place  of  all  travelers.  I protested  against 
lying  on  the  bare  earth.  “ No  hay  mas,”  growled  the  haughty  official. 
Of  course  there  was  nothing  more;  there  never  is  at  the  first  ten  or 
twelve  requests  among  these  pitiless  aboriginals.  An  hour’s  coaxing 
and  threatening,  nicely  interwoven,  and  the  gobernador  strolled  across 
the  plaza  and  came  back  with  just  the  thing, — a six  by  two-foot  door, 
covered  on  one  side  with  zinc.  I ordered  the  “ guide  ” to  place  the 
saddle  in  the  room,  lest  he  decamp  during  the  night,  gave  him  a medio 
for  chicha,  a real  to  buy  the  tops  of  sugar-cane  for  the  “ horse  ” — for 

295 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


we  were  far  below  the  alfalfa  line  — and  sent  the  gobernador  with 
twice  the  necessary  amount  to  find  wheat  for  a bowl  of  gruel.  To  the 
unspeakable  old  female  he  ordered  to  prepare  it  I paid  a large  day’s 
wages,  yet  the  luke-warm  “ soup  ” she  delivered  long  after  dark  had 
only  a spoonful  of  chaff  in  it.  In  the  Andes,  cooks,  workmen,  and  serv- 
ants appropriate  as  much  as  they  dare  of  anything  they  have  to  do 
with,  and  soldier,  peon,  dog,  or  cat,  each  expects  to  levy  his  toll  on  the 
traveler's  scanty  rations.  We  of  the  north  do  not  look  kindly  upon 
this  species  of  charity,  feeling  that  each  should  have  his  food  reg- 
ularly from  a definite  source ; yet  the  means  of  avoiding  a system 
more  deadening  in  its  effect  than  the  “ tip  ” of  more  advanced  com- 
munities is  yet  to  be  found. 

Before  daylight  of  a moonlit  Sunday  morning  we  were  off  again 
through  the  same  dreary  desert.  The  sun,  having  first  to  climb  the 
snow-capped  Cordillera,  only  overtook  us  as  we  were  crossing  the 
decrepit  little  bridge  high  above  the  Santa  river,  racing  through  its 
resounding  gorge  on  its  way  to  the  Pacific.  The  endless  climb  beyond 
was  by  so  narrow  a trail  along  the  face  of  a yawning  precipice  that 
my  saddlebags  scraped  continually  along  the  mountain  wall,  and  here 
and  there  a jutting  rock  thumped  me  sharply  on  the  knee.  At  scorch- 
ing high  noon  we  caught  sight,  between  grim,  austere  mountain  flanks, 
of  a long,  tilted  valley  lightly  covered  in  all  its  extent  with  tiled  houses 
among  scrub  trees,  which  my  peon  announced  was  Huaylas.  I had 
heard  such  rosy  reports  of  this  “ city  ” that  my  oft-disappointed  hopes 
grew  buoyant  again  before  a view  delightful  to  the  eye  weary  with  the 
savage  solitudes  behind.  But  it  turned  out  to  be  but  another  of  those 
bowelless,  stone-hearted  mountain  towns  whose  ragged  inhabitants  re- 
mind one  of  buzzards  hovering  about  a moribund,  each  snatching  what 
he  can,  as  soon  as  he  dares.  “ Don  Ricardo,”  an  anemic,  fishy-handed 
dwarf  of  outwardly  white  skin,  owner  of  the  chief  shop  of  Huaylas,  ran 
a sort  of  amateur  hotel  at  Ritz-Carlton  prices.  The  open-air  “ dining- 
room ” on  the  back  veranda  overlooked  — as  guests  likewise  struggled 
to  do  — a jumble  of  ancient  and  noisome  structures  and  stable-yards, 
in  the  most  distressing  of  which  a leprous  old  hag  concocted  the  in- 
edible messes  that  were  poked  through  a repulsive  hole  in  the  wall 
an  unconscionable  time  after  they  were  ordered.  The  rheumatic  and 
dismal  den  to  which  I was  assigned  was  below  the  street  level,  though 
I could  see  through  the  wooden-barred  window  the  brilliant,  sunny  day 
outside,  and  catch  a glimpse  of  the  serrated  line  of  snow  peaks  away 
to  the  east.  But  the  good  people  of  Huaylas,  informed  in  some  way 

296 


DRAWBACKS  OF  THE  TRAIL 


of  my  place  of  lodging,  amused  themselves  by  pounding  on  the  window 
bars,  shouting  amiable  insults  in  upon  me,  and  now  and  then  tossing 
in  clods  of  earth  and  an  occasional  stone  that  did  not  always  fall  short 
of  their  aim.  As  I had  had  no  quarrel  with  the  priest,  he  could  not 
have  denounced  me  as  a heretic.  It  must  have  been  simply  their 
racial  delight  in  producing  or  watching  suffering,  the  same  trait  that 
brings  them  joy  during  the  sorriest  moments  of  a bull-fight,  and  causes 
them  to  gather  in  crowds  to  tease  and  jeer  at  an  idiot  or  a cripple. 
It  was  “ Taco  ” who  finally  came  to  my  rescue.  “ Taco  ” was  a Japa- 
nese, chief  servant  of  Don  Ricardo,  and  the  only  really  intelligent  or 
humane  person  I had  met  since  walking  out  of  the  doctor's  house  in 
Huamachuco.  It  was  with  deep  regret  that  I paid  his  worthless  mas- 
ter for  what  the  servant  really  furnished. 

The  peon  who  was  to  start  with  me  at  dawn  next  day  was  still 
wallowing  among  the  chicha-shops  at  blazing  ten,  and  I was  weakly 
urging  a start — for  the  journey  was  long  — when  an  imposing 
personage  of  white  skin,  wearing  a leather  cap  and  real  shoes,  pushed 
through  the  jeering  throng  and  announced  himself  the  congressman  for 
that  district.  Having  heard  my  tale  of  woe,  he  gave  me  a card  order- 
ing the  medico  titular  of  Caraz  to  admit  me  to  the  hospital  there,  and  in 
due  time  prevailed  upon  the  besotted  peon  to  be  off.  The  order  was 
addressed  to  one  Dr.  Luis  A.  Phillips,  and  vastly  buoyed  up  by  the 
promise  inherent  in  such  a name,  I endured  uncomplainingly  the  rib- 
jolting trot  to  which  the  delayed  start  had  sentenced  me. 

Town  after  town  had  proved  such  dismal  disappointments  that  I did 
not  look  forward  to  Caraz  with  any  overwhelming  glee.  But  my  hopes 
rose  high  when  we  surmounted  one  of  the  countless  desert  ridges  and 
sighted  at  last  a vast,  level,  though  somewhat  tilted  plain  between  the 
Santa  river  and  the  brilliant  white  snow  peaks  of  the  ever  higher  Cor- 
dillera, with  hundreds  upon  hundreds  of  inviting  houses  specking  with 
red  its  many  orchards  and  checkered  green  patches  of  cultivation. 
The  Andes  rise  to  appalling  heights  in  these  parts,  and  take  on  a variety 
of  color  and  form  almost  comparable  to  the  Alps  in  beauty,  vastly 
outdoing  them  in  a certain  wild,  somber  undomesticated  grandeur. 
Under  the  declining  sun  the  bold  and  impressive  range  turned  from 
tawny  brown  to  deep  purple,  then  to  tender  violet  and  soft  lilac  as  they 
receded,  the  snowy  heads  of  the  peaks  seeming  to  hang  suspended  in 
the  evening  sky.  The  bridge  to  the  north  was  in  ruins,  and  I had  to 
ride  more  than  a mile  beyond  the  town  to  catch  the  road  from  the  south 
that  carried  us  at  last  into  the  place  as  the  shopkeepers  were  putting  up 

297 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


their  wooden  shutters.  It  was  almost  a city,  with  evidence  of  consider- 
able commerce  and  civilization,  great  glaciers  gazing  coldly  down  from 
the  transparent  sky  of  evening  into  the  neat  little  plaza. 

A considerable  percentage  of  the  inhabitants  were  white  in  color, 
but  this  was  apparently  only  skin-deep.  At  the  entrance  to  the  doctor’s 
patio  I was  met  by  his  wife,  a well-dressed,  auburn-haired  woman, 
to  all  outward  appearances  educated  and  civilized.  But  environment 
is  a powerful  factor.  She  differed  not  in  the  least  from  the  Indians 
of  Corongo.  Having  informed  me  with  an  icy  indifference  that  the 
doctor  was  “ somewhere  in  the  town,”  she  refused  even  to  permit  me 
to  enter  the  patio  to  wait  for  him.  There  being  nowhere  else  to  go,  I 
was  forced  to  remain  more  than  an  hour  astride  the  animal  I could 
scarcely  cling  to  after  eight  hours  of  racking  trot.  Not  a drop  of  any- 
thing could  I get  for  my  raging  thirst.  Instead,  the  woman’s  saucy 
children  joined  a score  of  other  urchins  of  the  town  in  crowding  around 
me  and  concocting  all  manner  of  annoyances,  even  to  throwing  stones 
and  striking  the  horse  unawares  on  the  legs,  while  a score  of  adults 
looked  on  from  the  street  corners  or  their  doorways  at  the  “ amuse- 
ment.” 

At  first  sight  of  the  doctor,  long  after  dark,  my  hopes  gushed  up  like 
a spurting  geyser,  but  they  fell  leadenly  to  the  ground  as  he  opened  his 
lips.  The  son  of  an  Englishman  stranded  a half-century  ago  in  this 
corner  of  Peru,  he  looked  as  British  as  any  stroller  along  Piccadilly ; yet 
in  speech,  manner,  and  mental  processes  he  was  “ Spig  ” to  the  core. 
With  a Latin-American  eagerness  to  be  rid  of  anything  suggesting 
labor  or  annoyance,  he  asked  a few  superficial  questions,  grunted 
twice  after  the  manner  of  physicians,  and  led  the  way  down  the  cob- 
bled street.  My  habit  of  picturing  in  detail  every  coming  scene  had 
only  been  increased  by  my  condition,  and  I braced  myself  to  enter  a 
dismal,  barren  mud  room,  with  a score  of  beds  filled  with  foul-tongued 
Peruvian  soldiers,  in  which  the  pilfering  of  my  possessions  would  be 
the  least  of  the  annoyances  awaiting  me.  I was  most  agreeably  disil- 
lusioned. The  hospital  at  Caraz  was  a new,  whitewashed,  pleasant 
little  building  recently  erected  by  a society  of  well-to-do  inhabitants. 
There  were  not  a half-dozen  patients,  and  in  painting  my  picture  I had 
completely  overlooked  the  Andean  rules  of  caste.  However  nastily 
he  may  treat  him  otherwise,  the  meanest  Peruvian  would  not  so  far 
forget  his  training  as  to  put  a white  man  among  Indians  or  negro- 
tainted  soldiers.  I was  given  full  possession  of  a long,  tile-floored 
room,  opening  on  the  flower-decked  patio  and  with  a large  barred 

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DRAWBACKS  OF  THE  TRAIL 


window  on  the  street ; the  best  chamber  in  the  building,  indeed,  except 
the  director’s  office.  True,  the  bed  was  board-floored,  and  I had  to 
ask  the  caretaker  to  remove  his  champion  gamecock  from  the  room  — 
whereupon  he  tied  him  by  a leg  just  outside  the  door  —but  who  could 
be  so  cruel  as  to  ask  a Peruvian  to  keep  his  rooster  where  he  cannot 
gloat  over  him  3s  he  works? 

The  doctor  came  for  a minute  and  a half  every  morning.  The  hos- 
pital being  a public  institution  and  he  a government  doctor,  he  scowled 
at  my  offer  to  pay  for  treatment.  The  caretaker  and  especially  his 
wife,  with  a seared  and  weather-worn  face  like  that  of  a good-hearted 
old  German  peasant  woman,  were  kindly  if  not  experienced  nurses.  I 
could  scarcely  have  fallen  upon  a finer  spot,  as  nature  goes,  to  be 
“ laid  on  the  shelf.”  Caraz,  7,440  feet  above  sea-level,  was  at  an  ideal 
height  as  a place  of  recuperation,  its  splendid  climate  tempered  and 
clarified  by  the  snowclads  above.  An  open  stream  made  music  by 
my  window;  the  sun  was  unbrokenly  brilliant  from  the  time  it  crawled 
over  the  snow-peaks  to  the  east  till  it  dropped  behind  the  western 
ranges.  I needed  no  clock  to  tell  the  time  of  day.  It  was  7 :40  when 
the  first  golden  streak  fell  upon  the  whitewashed  wall  beneath  the 
window  ; 12  :i4  when  the  golden  rectangle  that  marked  the  open  door  to 
the  patio  stood  upright ; 2 :20  when  the  window-bars  cast  their  first 
shadow  on  the  tiled  floor;  and  5 :io  when  these,  elongated  to  emaciated 
slenderness,  faded  away  into  the  purple  darkness  of  evening.  Two 
youths  of  the  town  dropped  in  on  me  one  day  and  brought  an  ancient 
book  of  tales ; but  it  goes  without  saying  that  I had  no  hint  of  what 
was  going  on  in  the  wide  world  beyond  the  encircling  ranges.  The 
unique  feature  of  the  hospital  was  that  no  provision  whatever  was 
made  for  patients  to  wash,  even  face  and  hands.  Bathing  was  looked 
upon  as  highly  dangerous  to  invalids,  and  it  was  only  after  several 
days,  and  at  the  expense  of  much  argument,  that  I finally  caused  a 
wash-tub  of  tepid  water  to  be  dragged  into  the  room. 


299 


CHAPTER  XII 


THE  ROOF  OF  PERU 

FOR  a week  I improved  under  the  doctor’s  care.  I had  already 
strolled  once  or  twice  around  the  neat  little  plaza,  down  upon 
which  the  massive,  snowclad  peaks  gaze  with  paternal  serenity. 
But  my  legs  were  still  in  that  woven-straw  condition  that  made  my 
feet  lead  ingots ; and  no  pleasure  quite  outdid  that  of  lying  abed  watch- 
ing the  sunshine  crawl  across  the  floor,  and  listening  to  the  keeper’s 
rooster  challenging  the  world  to  combat.  I should  have  regretted  a 
controversy  with  that  rooster  during  those  days ; I am  sure  he  would 
have  worsted  me. 

On  Sunday,  the  first  of  June,  the  doctor  did  not  appear;  nor  the 
next  day,  nor  the  next.  Medicines  and  tonics  ran  out.  I decided  to 
push  on  next  morning,  before  what  strength  I had  regained  evap- 
orated entirely.  But  during  the  night  there  came  upon  me  a pain 
under  which  I could  only  writhe  and  stuff  my  throat  with  bedclothes. 
When  I had  enjoyed  this  an  hour  or  two,  a brilliant  thought  struck 
me, — appendicitis  ! All  the  night  through  — for  only  the  rooster  slept 
within  shouting  distance  — I painted  fanciful  pictures  of  a grave 
looked  down  upon  by  the  paternal,  serene  peaks  through  the  ages  to 
come.  For  it  was  easy  to  guess  how  effectively  the  surgeons  of  the 
Andes  would  surge  — with  their  butcher-knives,  sheep-shears  and 
ditch-water.  In  the  morning  I sent  the  caretaker  to  summon  the  doc- 
tor before  he  set  out  on  his  rounds.  About  nine  he  came  back  to  an- 
nounce, in  a manner  suspiciously  sheepish,  that  the  senor  doctor 
medico  titular  was  confined  to  his  bed.  As  the  day  wore  on  the  fellow 
overcame  his  racial  lack  of  initiative  to  the  extent  of  bringing  me  a 
potion  from  the  chief  botica,  but  it  had  little  effect.  Then  all  at  once 
“ Taco,”  the  Japanese  of  Huaylas,  grinned  in  on  me  through  the  bars 
of  my  window,  and  a half-hour  later  the  keeper  of  the  drug-shop  had 
come  in  person. 

“ It  is  congestion  of  the  bowels,  senor,”  he  announced/  “ These 
pilduras  will  relieve  it.  The  doctor  was  to  have  changed  the  treatment 
on  Sunday  to  avoid  this,  but  — ” 


300 


THE  ROOF  OF  PERU 


“ Is  the  doctor  seriously  ill?”  I asked. 

“ Sehor,”  said  the  druggist,  after  a moment  of  hesitation,  “ on  Sat- 
urday night  the  medico  titular  took  some  liquor  at  a tertulia.  It  is 
fatal  to  him.  He  cannot  stop.  It  is  now  four  days  that  he  has  lain 
mareado  ” (seasick),  “ and  he  has  not  been  able  to  visit  one  of  his  pa- 
tients. Out  in  the  pueblos  three  have  already  died ; for  there  is  no 
other  doctor.” 

I had  been  ten  days  in  Caraz  when,  in  spite  of  a soreness  within  and 
an  annoying  lack  of  vigor,  I decided  to  push  on  afoot.  A broad  road 
led  south  along  the  green  and  fertile  valley  of  the  Santa,  shut  in  on 
either  hand  by  the  yellow,  terra-cotta  flanks  of  barren  mountains  as 
between  unscalable  walls.  The  way  was  well-peopled  with  broad- 
faced, stolid  Indians  speaking  no  Spanish,  and  a felt  hat  of  tobacco- 
color  was  now  taking  the  place  of  the  dingy  “ panamas  ” that  had 
been  almost  universal  since  southern  Ecuador.  It  was  only  a sample 
day's  walk ; eight  miles  to  another  provincial  capital.  But  it  seemed 
at  least  twenty,  especially  as  the  “ perfectly  level  ” road  kept  mounting 
steadily,  for  Yungay  is  a thousand  feet  higher  than  Caraz.  The  snow- 
and-glacier  mass  of  Huascaran,  king  of  that  magnificent  snow-capped 
range  that  dwarfs  the  Alps,  bulked  menacingly  almost  sheer  above 
the  bucolic  old  plaza,  when  I plodded  across  it  in  the  sleepy  silence  of 
noonday  to  the  dwelling  of  an  unusually  simple-hearted  subprefect. 

Next  morning  Yungay  stretched  for  miles  along  the  half-cobbled 
highway,  and  had  scarcely  ended  when  Mancos  began.  This  depart- 
ment of  Ancachs  and  the  valley  of  the  Santa  is  the  most  densely  popu- 
lated region  of  Peru.  The  fifteen  miles  to  Carhuaz  was  what  the 
Peruvians  call  an  excellent  road ; to  a people  of  wider  outlook  it  would 
have  been  recognizable  as  a broad  expanse  of  loose  stones  undulating 
over  barren  ridges,  relieved  by  the  bracing  mountain  air  from  off  the 
blue-white  bulk  of  Huascaran,  here  seeming  to  hang  suspended  over- 
head. The  water  of  all  this  valley  is  reputed  a source  of  several  dread 
diseases,  among  them  the  warty  verrugas  indigenous  to  Peru.  The 
bottle  of  boiled  “ tea-water  ” swinging  from  my  leather  harness  lasted 
but  a few  dry  miles,  and  I could  only  fall  back,  not  without  misgiving, 
on  chicha,  announced  for  sale  by  a little  red  flag  before  an  oc- 
casional hut  along  the  way.  The  bridge  that  once  lifted  the  camino 
real  across  the  swift,  cold  stream  at  the  edge  of  the  green  oasis  that 
marked  the  end  of  the  day’s  tramp  had  gone  the  way  of  most  Peruvian 
bridges,  and  left  me  to  wade  waist-deep.  Strangely  enough,  my 
host  of  Yungay  had  kept  his  word  to  telegraph  the  gobernador  of 

301 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


Carhuaz,  and  I sat  down  almost  upon  arrival  with  the  family  at  a din- 
ner served  after  the  patriarchal  manner  of  the  Andes.  To  those  of  us 
at  table  the  wife  at  the  head  granted  the  full  meal,  from  the  hot,  pep- 
pery soup  of  Ancachs  to  the  dessert  of  fried  plantains  in  “ honey,” — 
melted  crude  sugar.  To  the  dozen  Indian  servants  squatted  along  the 
wall  she  dished  out  frugally  the  coarser  viands,  to  each  according  to 
his  station  in  life,  the  bedraggled  scullion  getting  only  a small  gourdful 
of  boiled  corn  and  yuca.  During  our  Sunday  stroll  in  the  plaza  the 
gobernador  introduced  me  in  the  same  careful  order  to  every  town 
celebrity,  down  to  the  last  teniente;  after  which  we  of  the  elite  gathered 
round  the  town  clerk  in  a corner  of  the  square  to  hear  read  the  weekly 
“ bulletin,”  from  the  two-line  cable  of  foreign  news  “ via  Lima  ” to 
the  last  testimonial  to  the  efficacy  of  the  pills  of  Dr.  Ross  as  a panacea 
of  all  earthly  misfortunes. 

I was  miles  south  before  the  first  rays  of  Monday’s  sun  fell  upon  me, 
and  even  after  that  was  able  to  sneak  along  for  hours  in  the  shadow  of 
the  Cordillera,  so  closely  did  it  stand  above  me.  Town  rapidly  suc- 
ceeded town,  with  miles  of  almost  unbroken  house-walls  crowding  a 
damnably  cobbled  road  to  barely  the  width  of  a wheeled  vehicle.  Not 
even  along  an  English  highway  would  more  houses  have  been  shops. 
The  male  population  spoke  a more  or  less  fluent  Spanish,  weedy  with 
terms  from  their  native  tongue;  but  the  women  either  could  not  or 
would  not  use  anything  but  Quichua.  The  dialect  of  the  region  con- 
tained a labor-saving  devise  in  the  phrase  “ A ’onde  vueno  ? ” serving 
for  the  more  specific  “ Where  do  you  come  from  and  where  are  you 
going?”  of  less  inventive  sections.  Not  a few  took  me  for  a peddler, 
and  called  out  from  their  doorways,  “ Que  lleva  de  venta,  senor  ? ” and 
some  sent  children  running  after  me  with  a summons  to  return,  lest 
they  miss  a precious  opportunity  for  long-winded  and  chiefly  futile 
bargaining.  Ripened  corn  was  being  husked  in  the  narrowing  fields 
along  the  way.  The  repulsive,  flanking  ranges  crowded  closer  and 
closer  together,  squeezing  the  stony  road  ever  higher,  until  the  hills 
closed  in  entirely,  and  a precipitous,  barren  ridge,  cutting  off  the  world 
to  the  south,  left  it  no  choice  but  to  contract  to  a cobbled  street  of  the 
department  capital.  The  sun  was  setting  when  I halted  at  a corner  of 
Huaraz’  main  plaza,  my  legs  leaden  with  the  twenty-five  undulating, 
stony  miles  behind  me,  to  inquire  for  that  famous  hotel  rumor  had 
pictured  for  weeks  gone  by. 

The  conviction  came  upon  me  that  there  would  not  be  a hotel  even 
in  Lima.  A citizen  of  Huaraz  did  point  out  to  me  a building  boasting 

302 


THE  ROOF  OF  PERU 


itself  the  “ Gran  Hotel,”  but  all  it  offered  was  a few  rooms  to  let. 
To  me  fell  that  of  the  zaguan,  a prison-like  chamber  forming  a front 
corner  of  the  building  ana  opening  on  both  the  street  and  the  entrance 
to  the  patio.  It  had  once  been  the  oratorio  of  a private  dwelling,  and 
the  altar  and  its  decorations  were  still  intact,  except  that  the  Virgin 
had  flown  from  her  niche.  Across  the  way  was  a Chinese  fonda  with 
the  same  bill  of  fare,  worse  cooked,  worse  served,  and  more  expensive 
than  that  of  Cajamarca.  This  was  the  gathering-place  of  the  elite 
among  the  homeless  transients.  I had  not  the  courage  to  investigate 
the  dozen  other  Chinese  and  native  “ restaurants  ” scattered  about 
town. 

Huaraz,  capital  of  the  most  populous  department  of  Peru  and  the 
largest  city  I had  yet  seen  since  crossing  the  frontier,  is  really  but  an- 
other mud  village  of  the  Andes,  differing  from  the  rest  only  in  size. 
Its  adobe  buildings  seldom  rise  above  a story  and  a half  in  heighth ; its 
rusticated  inhabitants,  in  ragged,  comic-opera  costumes,  the  majority 
speaking  only  Quichua,  were  for  the  most  part  ill-bred  and  disagreeable 
in  manner,  especially  to  “ gringos,”  whose  intelligence  or  cleanliness 
they  seemed  to  resent.  Even  the  small  percentage  of  whites  — real 
whites,  that  is,  for  there  were  many  who  no  doubt  mistakenly  consid- 
ered themselves  so  — were  gaping  mountaineers.  Window-glass,  to  be 
sure,  was  to  be  found,  and  there  were  actually  three  or  four  clumsy, 
two-wheeled  carts,  like  the  rural  wagons  of  England,  the  arrival  of 
which  was  no  doubt  an  event  in  the  town  history.  Foreign  residents 
were  numerous,  especially  Chinamen,  who  owned  many  of  the  shops  of 
importance,  leaving  the  natives  to  squat  in  the  street  with  their  few 
cents’-worth  of  wares.  The  town  itself  has  nothing  “ picturesque  ” 
about  it,  neither  in  the  color  and  style  of  its  houses  nor  the  rags  of  its 
inhabitants ; but  this  is  far  more  than  made  up  for  by  the  magnificent 
range  of  snowclad  peaks  that  climb  up  into  the  blue  all  about  it,  tower- 
ing close  above  the  town  on  the  east  and  stretching  away  into  the  north, 
to  end  in  the  enormous  blue-white  mass  of  Huascaran.  Its  climate, 
colder  than  that  of  Quito  and  with  a perpetually  brilliant  sunshine  and 
an  invigorating  crispness  to  the  air,  was  delightful.  There  was  even 
a shelf  of  books  for  sale  in  one  of  the  larger  establishments,  though 
the  nearest  I came  to  finding  literature  of  the  country  for  the  road 
ahead  was  Bjornson’s  “ Sendas  de  Dios,”  whatever  it  may  be  called 
in  Norwegian. 

Rumor  had  it  that  the  tramp  over  the  icy  Cordillera  Central  that 
now  lay  before  me  would  be  “ impossible,”  even  to  a man  in  the  most 

303 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


sturdy  condition.  To  slip  down  to  the  coast  and  sail  for  Lima  would 
have  been  easy,  but  a racial  obstinacy  forced  me  to  pursue  to  the  bitter 
end  the  task  I had  set  myself,  though  it  promised  only  the  monotony 
of  familiar  experience  and  further  intercourse  with  a people  that  had 
grown  utterly  antipathetic  in  habit,  feature,  and  character.  An  Amer- 
ican resident  furnished  me  a horse  and  a peon  for  the  first  day’s  jour- 
ney. The  prefect  had  favored  me  with  the  customary  flowery  docu- 
ment to  his  subordinates  along  the  way,  ordering  them  to  “ lend  me  all 
classes  of  facilities.”  It  would  have  been  far  more  to  the  point  had 
he  commanded  them  more  specifically  to  assist  me  to  acquire  an  oc- 
casional plate  of  beans.  The  dusty  road  close  along  the  diminishing 
river  was  well  traveled,  chiefly  by  long  donkey  trains  and  plodding,  ex- 
pressionless Indians.  Huts  and  even  small  villages  were  frequent, 
the  barren  ranges  crowding  ever  closer  and  dwindling  almost  to  foot- 
hills, or  rather  seeming  so  to  dwindle  as  we  mounted  ever  higher. 
Beyond  the  bridge  that  carried  us  back  to  the  right  bank  of  the  Santa 
were  scores  of  little  wheat-fields,  often  hanging  far  up  the  steep  hill- 
sides ; and  Indians  were  threshing  the  grain  by  driving  their  animals 
round  and  round  the  circles  of  hard  earth  in  which  it  had  been  spread, 
and  tossing  it  high  in  the  air  with  wooden  shovels  until  the  wind  had 
carried  away  the  chaff.  The  monotonous  mud  town  of  Recuay,  no- 
torious for  its  horse-thieves,  gazed  stolidly  upon  us  as  we  trotted  on  to 
Ticapampa,  headquarters  of  a French  mining  company,  the  several  tall 
chimneys  of  which  were  belching  their  smoke  into  the  brilliant  sky, 
their  ugliness  offset  by  the  first  suggestion  of  industry  in  Peru. 

It  cost  me  three  days  and  several  tramps  back  to  Recuay  to  find  a 
mount  for  the  journey  ahead.  Walking  would  have  been  far  less  la- 
borious. But  there  were  sixteen  leagues  of  bleak,  foodless  paramos 
and  two  snow-topped  ranges  separating  me  from  the  first  suggestion 
of  habitation  on  the  further  side  of  the  great  glacier-clad  central  chain 
of  the  Andes,  that  stretched  away  to  north  and  south  further  than  the 
eye  could  command,  like  an  impassable  barrier  set  by  nature  against 
the  wilfulness  of  puny  man. 

Fortunately  the  wife  of  an  Indian  of  Recuay  celebrated  that  Sun- 
day so  effectually  that  she  brought  to  bed  her  companions  in  a drunken 
brawl.  The  gobernador  fined  her  twenty  soles.  Her  husband  pos- 
sessed only  ten,  and  her  wails  from  the  adobe  carcel  were  interfering 
with  the  bargaining  in  the  market-place.  Summoned  by  the  walking 
scarecrow  who  boasted  himself  the  lieutenant-governor,  the  head  of 
the  disrupted  household  admitted,  after  a wealth  of  subterfuges,  that 

304 


2*3 


Though  within  a few  degrees  of  the  equators,  Huaraz,  capital  of  the  most  populous  depart- 
ment of  Peru,  has  a veritable  Swiss  setting  of  snow-clad  peaks  and  glaciers 


Threshing  wheat  with  the  aid  of  the  wind.  In  the  few  regions  of  the  Andes  that  are  neither 
too  high  nor  too  low  for  this  grain,  the  methods  of  cultivation  are  the  most  primitive 


THE  ROOF  OF  PERU 


he  owned  two  mules  in  condition  for  a journey,  and  the  gobernador, 
pocketing  “ in  the  name  of  justice  ” the  sovereign  I handed  him,  or- 
dered the  abject  husband  to  be  ready  at  six  in  the  morning  to  accom- 
pany me  to  Huallanga. 

Some  two  leagues  further  up  the  contracted  valley  we  crossed  the 
now  tiny  Santa  by  a bridge  of  sticks  and,  catching  the  gorge  of  a 
little  stream  fed  by  the  glaciers  above,  plunged  due  east  into  the  moun- 
tains. The  sun  had  burned  our  faces  in  the  river  valley;  an  hour 
afterward  it  was  cold  as  late  November.  Rain  began,  but  quickly 
turned  to  a mixture  of  hail  and  snow.  Dusk  overtook  us  at  the  foot 
of  a mighty  glacier,  though  not  until  we  had  sighted  one  of  the  rare 
shepherd’s  huts  that  huddled  in  an  occasional  stony  hollow.  These 
miserable  Indian  cliozas  of  the  upper  heights  are  built  of  cobble-stones 
heaped  up  to  the  height  of  a dog-kennel  and  covered  with  brown  ichu 
grass,  hardly  as  large  and  quite  as  crude  as  those  the  beaver  fashions, 
defending  their  miserable  inmates  neither  from  wind  nor  rain.  A 
single  room,  which  can  only  be  entered  on  hands  and  knees,  houses 
the  whole  family,  whom  a sheepskin  or  two  serves  as  bed,  and  two  or 
three  earthen  pots  as  utensils  in  which  to  cook  their  scanty  fare  over 
an  ichu  or  dried-dung  fire  in  the  center  of  the  windowless  hovel. 
Totally  indifferent  to  wealth  or  comfort,  with  hardly  fuel  enough  for 
cooking  purposes,  the  stolid  inhabitants  slink  into  their  squalid  dens  as 
soon  as  the  sun  has  withdrawn  his  genial  rays,  and  shiver  through  a 
night  during  which  they  get  almost  no  unbroken  sleep.  With  scarcely 
enough  food  to  keep  themselves  from  starvation,  they  house  swarms  of 
mangy  curs  that  curl  up  among  them  by  night,  and  which,  being  never 
fed,  dash  greedily  at  any  offal,  like  the  pigs  of  Central  America.  Here 
there  was  a second  kennel,  oval  in  shape,  which  the  woman  permitted 
us  to  occupy,  because  she  was  asked  in  her  own  tongue  by  one  of  her 
own  people.  Both  she  and  her  half-dozen  children  were  barefoot  and 
in  scanty  garb,  yet  appeared  completely  indifferent  to  the  icy  cold 
which,  if  less  in  degrees  than  in  a Canadian  mid-winter,  was  more 
penetrating.  We  carried  blankets  sufficient  to  pass  the  night  com- 
fortably, huddled  close  together,  but  as  often  as  I stepped  out  into  the 
brilliant  moonlight  in  which  the  ice-fields  above  us  stood  forth  like  fis- 
sured and  fantastic  ghost-castles,  the  very  marrow  in  my  bones  seemed 
to  congeal. 

Hoar-frost  covered  the  earth,  and  ice  a half-inch  thick  lay  on  the 
stagnant  puddles  when  we  set  out  in  the  bitter  cold  dawn  across  a re- 
gion drear  in  the  extreme.  Stiff,  stony  climbs  carried  us  up  to  the 

305 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 

very  edges  of  immense  blue-white  glaciers,  and  through  patches  of 
snow  that  threw  the  sharp  rays  of  the  highland  sun  into  our  eyes  and 
faces  like  a spray  of  needles.  The  day  was  as  laborious  as  any  I 
had  ever  spent  afoot, — thirty-six  miles  over  the  wintry,  rock-pitched 
double  crest  of  the  Central  Cordillera  on  a mule  who  jolted  my  unac- 
customed frame  to  a loose-jointed  wreck  before  I finally  slid  grate- 
fully to  the  ground  in  the  bleak  mining-town  of  Huallanga.  This  was 
a slight  oasis  of  imported  life  in  a wild,  almost  uninhabited  region,  the 
Peruvian  mine-manager  of  which  was  extraordinary  from  at  least  two 
points  of  view, — he  was  blond  as  a Norseman,  and  so  advanced  in  his 
customs  that  I dared  even  address  his  wife  directly  at  table. 

Next  day  I joined  — for  a decided  consideration  — the  caravan  of 
a local  merchant  whose  arrieros  were  bound  for  Cerro  de  Pasco  with 
a troop  of  cargo-animals.  A “ civilized  ” Indian,  that  is,  one  who 
wore  shoes  and  spoke  Spanish,  called  for  me  with  a half-size  horse, 
the  crude  native  saddle  covered  with  a pellon,  the  hairy  saddle-rug  all 
high-caste  horsemen  use  in  this  region,  and  soon  after  noon  we  jogged 
away  down  a stony  little  river.  The  merchant  had  duly  and  honestly 
warned  me  that,  being  only  pack-animals,  his  chuscos  were  gifted  with 
no  gentle  pace.  But  he  had  not  warned  me  that  I was  joining  a way- 
freight.  I drew  on  ahead  in  spite  of  myself,  and  when,  barely  eight 
miles  from  Huallanga,  the  shrieks  and  whistles  of  the  drivers  died  out 
behind,  I waited  a half-hour  in  vain,  then  went  back  some  distance  to 
find  them  lassooing  the  animals  one  by  one,  piling  their  loads  or  pack- 
saddles  in  a hollow  square,  and  turning  them  loose  with  their  front 
feet  crudely  hobbled.  There  were  nineteen  animals,  mostly  in  ballast, 
attended  by  four  arrieros.  Too  lazy  apparently  to  unsling  their  pots 
and  cook  supper,  the  patched  and  weather- faded  quartet  munched  a 
bit  of  parched  corn  and  a sheet  of  sun-dried  beef,  and  sat  all  night 
drinking  and  wailing  maudlin  ballads.  The  “ tent  ” stretched  over 
the  packs  was  so  low  that  I had  to  lie  down  on  the  ground  and  roll 
under  it,  and  so  thin  that  the  rain  dripped  in  upon  me  almost  in 
streams. 

It  was  still  black  night  when  the  water-soaked  canvas  was  pulled  off 
me,  and  I found  the  arrieros  already  engaged  in  a riotous  effort  to 
round  up  the  animals.  This  was  no  simple  task,  in  spite  of  the  hob- 
bles, and  the  morning  was  well  advanced  before  the  last  of  the  troop 
had  been  lassooed  and  loaded.  During  the  operation  I suggested  that 
we  prepare  at  least  a pot  of  tea,  but  Valenzuela,  the  chief  arriero,  dis- 
missed the  matter  with  a grimace  and  a “ neither  wood  nor  grass  will 

306 


THE  ROOF  OF  PERU 


burn  after  the  rain,”  and  I could  only  choke  my  hunger  with  a rock- 
hard  lump  of  bread  and  shiver  under  my  poncho  until  I mounted,  this 
time  a mule,  to  spare  the  animal  of  the  day  before. 

We  followed  the  river-gorge  so  long  that  it  turned  almost  uncom- 
fortably warm.  Then  suddenly  abandoning  the  highway  to  modern 
Huanuco  and  the  roundabout,  but  warm  and  well-populated,  route  to 
Cerro  de  Pasco,  the  arrieros  drove  the  animals  pell-mell  up  a steep 
gorge  between  towering  mountain  walls,  by  what  looked  like  a spillway 
from  a stone-crusher.  This  was  the  very  route  I should  have  chosen, 
for  while  the  longer  one  would  have  been  more  comfortable,  this  fol- 
lowed very  closely  the  ancient  Inca  highway.  Topping  the  horizon,  we 
trotted  on  across  an  enormous,  brown-yellow  plain  of  scanty  ichu  vege- 
tation that  stretched  away  to  the  hazy  foot  of  what  looked  from  this 
height  like  low  hills.  Here  was  just  such  a place  as  the  Incas,  requiring 
an  unbroken  outlook  over ’the  surrounding  world  and  grazing  land  for 
their  llamas,  chose  for  their  cities.  I was  not  surprised,  therefore,  to 
find  a long  expanse  of  the  paramo  covered  with  hundreds  of  stone  ruins, 
only  the  walls  still  standing,  from  one  to  eight  feet  high,  in  broken, 
fantastic  disarray.  This  was  “ Huanuco  el  Viejo,”  which  the  Span- 
iards found  an  important  city  at  the  time  of  the  Conquest,  but  which 
the  less  hardy  half-breed  descendants  abandoned,  as  in  so  many  cases, 
for  a warmer  valley,  eighteen  leagues  to  the  east.  History  does  not 
reach  back  to  the  origin  of  old  Huanuco,  the  ruins  of  which  still  oc- 
cupy almost  a square  mile  of  the  silent,  utterly  uninhabited  plain. 
The  road  — a mere  interweaving  of  faint  paths  across  the  Andean 
prairie  — passed  within  five  hundreds  yards  of  the  ruins,  but  the 
caravan  pushed  on  without  a halt,  as  if  these  monuments  of  their  an- 
cestors were  mere  stone-heaps,  unworthy  a glance  of  attention.  I 
turned  and  trotted  away  across  the  plain,  bathed  in  the  cold,  glaring 
sunshine  of  the  Andean  plateau,  toward  the  site.  Valenzuela,  after 
a shout  of  protest,  stuck  close  on  my  heels,  whether  out  of  fear  that 
I would  decamp  with  the  mule,  or  lay  hands  on  some  old  Inca  treas- 
ure, or  from  some  superstition  connected  with  the  “ Gentiles,”  I do  not 
know.  There  was  really  little  to  be  seen.  Every  one  of  the  countless 
ruins  of  large  and  small  buildings,  arranged  more  or  less  in  squares, 
were  sections  of  cobble-stone  walls,  mere  stone-heaps  without  sign  of 
mortar,  as  crude  as  the  chozas  of  shepherds,  now  fallen  until,  in  many 
places,  only  their  symmetrical  arrangement  suggested  the  hand  of  man. 
To  this  there  was  only  one  exception.  Some  three  hundred  yards 
from  the  rest  of  the  ruins  was  a rectangular  fortress  of  carefully  cut 

307 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


and  nicely  fitted  stone  blocks,  with  suggestions  of  cement,  now  mere 
walls,  some  fifteen  feet  high,  filled  level  full  of  earth  on  which  the 
drear  ichu  grew  as  thickly  as  on  the  surrounding  plain.  Except  in  ex- 
tent, the  ruins  were  not  to  be  compared  with  those  of  Marca- 
Huamachuco,  though  the  “ castillo  ” closely  resembled  in  construction 
and  stone-fitting  the  single  monument  of  Ingapirca  in  southern 
Ecuador. 

We  trotted  on  after  the  pack-train,  and  rode  for  some  hours  over 
low  ridges,  each  of  which  brought  to  view  a new  expanse  of  dreary, 
yellowish  landscape.  Occasionally  an  arriero  broke  forth  in  a mourn- 
ful song  that  rose  and  fell  with  the  same  monotony  as  the  undulating 
paramo.  Now  and  then,  as  a pack  worked  loose,  one  of  the  muleteers 
dismounted  and,  deftly  slipping  out  of  his  poncho,  threw  it  over  the 
head  of  the  animal  and  readjusted  the  load.  To  my  surprise,  quickly 
followed  by  my  disgust,  the  train  soon  after  noon  swung  into  the  cob- 
ble-fenced field  of  a low,  cobble-stone  hut,  similar  to,  but  far  more 
miserable  and  tiny  than  those  of  the  ancient  city  behind.  Greeting  the 
barefoot  Indian  woman  who  emerged  on  all  fours  from  the  hut,  the 
arrieros  began  to  round  up  and  unload  the  animals.  Though  we  had 
not  made  fifteen  miles,  we  were  to  stop  here  for  the  night.  I swallowed 
my  wrath,  reflecting  that  he  who  joins  a freight-train  must  not  expect 
express  speed. 

It  was  too  cold  to  sit,  and  I took  to  promenading  weakly  about  the 
hillside.  Down  in  a hollow  beyond  I came  upon  a family  preparing 
their  crop  of  potatoes  after  the  ancient  Inca  fashion  still  common  to 
the  Andes.  This  chuno — chuhu,  in  Quichua  — is  the  chief  vegetable 
of  Andean  market-places  and  the  principal  food  of  the  Indians  of  the 
Sierra.  The  newly  dug  potatoes  are  spread  out  on  the  ground  at  a 
high  altitude,  preferably  on  the  bank  of  a highland  lake  or  stream,  and 
left  to  freeze  by  night.  They  are  small  potatoes,  for  the  Indian’s 
mode  of  selection  has  been  to  plant  only  the  smallest,  eating  or  selling 
the  larger,  until  the  tubers  indigenous  to  Peru  have  degenerated  to  the 
same  low  level  as  their  horses  and  dogs.  When  the  sun  has  thawed 
the  potatoes,  the  Indians  of  the  household  tread  out  the  juice  with 
their  bare  feet,  then  spread  them  in  the  sun  to  dry.  This  produces  the 
chuno  negro,  or  black  chuno,  which  in  the  time  of  the  Incas  was  the 
only  kind  permitted  the  common  people,  and  which  to-day  forms  the 
chief  product  of  the  process.  Those  who  prefer  chuno  bianco,  the 
“twice  frozen  white  chuno”  which  graced  only  the  tables  of  the 
Incas  and  nobles,  put  the  tubers  inside  a well  of  cobble-stones  under 

308 


Crossing  the  Central  Cordillera  of  the  Andes  south  of  Huaraz,  barely  nine  degrees  below  the  equator.  In  the  foreground  is  my  “guide” 

of  the  obstreperous  wife 


THE  ROOF  OF  PERU 


the  surface  of  a river  or  lake,  and  leave  them  from  two  to  eight  days, 
after  which  they  are  dried  in  the  sun.  The  result  is  a food  that  will 
keep  indefinitely,  but  which  has  very  much  the  same  taste  as  so  much 
fried  sand.  The  most  common  method  of  preparing  these  frozen  pota- 
toes is  to  grind  them  in  a stone  mortar  and  use  the  powdered  chuno 
to  thicken  soup. 

When  the  head  of  the  Indian  household  arrived,  he  opened  with 
Valenzuela  a conversation  in  half-breed  Quichua,  of  which  I caught 
enough  to  learn  that  we  were  to  drive  a league  west  in  the  morning 
to  wait  a day  for  some  species  of  cargo,  stop  to  pick  up  another  load 
a few  leagues  beyond,  and  so  on  indefinitely.  I called  the  arriero 
aside  and  protested  that,  aside  from  the  hardships  and  exposure  of 
lying  out  on  every  mountain-side,  I was  steadily  growing  worse  for 
lack  of  treatment.  To  my  surprise  he  proposed  that  I ride  on  alone 
next  day.  As  he  would  never  have  dreamed  of  making  such  a pro- 
posal to  a Peruvian  stranger,  it  spoke  well  of  the  opinion  he  had  gath- 
ered of  Americans  from  contact  with  them  in  the  mining  town  to- 
ward which  we  were  headed.  A bed  of  several  horse-blankets  was 
spread  for  me  beneath  the  flap  of  the  canvas  covering  our  packs,  out 
under  the  shivering  stars  that  stood  forth  in  the  luminous  highland  sky 
with  the  unnatural  luster  of  electric  bulbs.  During  the  later  hours  of 
the  night,  when  I rolled  out  into  the  cold,  still  air,  a brilliant  full  moon 
was  flooding  with  almost  the  light  of  noonday  the  rolling  mountainous 
world  about  us  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach. 

I knew  only  too  well  that  a matter  settled  the  night  before  would 
have  to  be  argued  out  anew  in  the  morning.  Dawn  crept  up  over  the 
eaves  of  the  east,  and  the  god  of  the  Incas  flung  his  horizontal  rays 
across  the  empty  plateau,  but  Valenzuela,  assuming  the  customary  air 
in  such  cases,  that  we  had-  neither  of  us  meant  what  we  had  said  the 
evening  before,  made  no  move  to  prepare  for  my  departure.  When 
I reminded  him  of  his  promise,  he  announced  that  he  would,  of  course, 
keep  it,  if  I really,  seriously  desired  it.  Only,  it  would  be  utterly  im- 
possible for  a man  unacquainted  with  the  route  to  find  his  way  across 
the  often  unmarked  punas  and  pampas  ahead.  Then,  too,  it  was  in- 
fested with  bands  of  robbers  who  at  times  attacked  whole  pack-trains, 
to  say  nothing  of  one  lone,  helpless  gringo.  If  only  I would  wait  until 
to-morrow,  he  and  I would  ride  on  alone  at  breakneck  speed,  and 
make  up  for  all  the  delay.  I had  long  since  learned  the  close  resem- 
blance of  the  South  American  manana  to  a greased  pig;  moreover,  I 
had  no  desire  to  ride  at  breakneck  speed.  He  muttered  under  his 

309 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 

breath  at  this  gringo  obstinacy,  and  ordered  the  youngest  arriero  to 
saddle  a horse  and  accompany  me.  The  latter  refused.  Valenzuela 
shrugged  his  shoulders  with  a gesture  that  meant,  “ You  see  it  is  out 
of  the  question.”  But  the  experienced  Andean  traveler  can  always 
win  his  point,  if  he  insists  long  and  hard  enough.  The  chief  arriero 
gave  up  at  last  and  sent  a man  to  lassoo  and  saddle,  not  the  “ stout 
mule  ” he  had  promised  the  evening  before,  but  one  of  the  saddest 
imitations  of  the  genus  horse  in  camp ; and  late  in  the  morning  I rode 
down  through  the  chuno-producing  gully  and  away  over  the  brown 
and  sterile  world  spread  broad  and  high  before  me. 

The  arriero’s  first  prophecy  came  quickly  true.  I lost  the  road.  A 
stretch  of  what  was  evidently  the  old  Inca  highway,  broad  and  grass- 
grown  and  lined  by  two  rows  of  stones,  pushed  straight  on  over  all 
obstacles  in  what  seemed  to  be  the  right  direction,  but  it  did  not  fit 
the  descriptions  that  had  been  given  me.  The  well-marked  trail  I 
followed  led  me  down  into  two  gaping  hamlets  that  had  not  been  men- 
tioned, and  doubled  the  miles  to  Banos,  somnolent  as  an  Italian  village 
at  summer  noonday,  down  in  the  throat  of  a gorge.  The  frowsy 
chusco  already  gave  signs  of  not  being  able  to  endure  the  journey. 
All  I demanded  was  a reasonable  walking  pace,  yet  it  cost  me  far 
more  labor  than  to  have  made  the  trip  afoot  to  keep  the  animal  mov- 
ing a scant  two  miles  an  hour.  It  was  evident  that,  for  all  my  incessant 
labor,  we  should  not  reach  before  nightfall  the  hacienda  we  were 
seeking,  and  when  it  came  on  to  rain  and  hail  in  a cold,  bleak  bowl  of 
mountains,  I turned  toward  a collection  of  huts  that  stood  out  dimly 
as  an  animal  of  protective  coloring  on  the  upper  edge  of  the  saucer- 
shaped hollow. 

The  Indian  men,  patronizing  and  arrogant  in  their  clumsy  way,  as 
usual  in  such  situations,  offered  me  the  customary  six-inch  block  of 
wood  on  which  to  squat  under  the  eaves  of  the  “ corredor.”  I took 
weakly  to  promenading  the  twenty-four  miles  in  the  saddle  out  of  my 
legs,  and  furtively  inspected  the  six  huts  that  made  up  the  collection. 
All  were  earth-floored  dens,  roofed  with  ichu,  against  several  of  which 
immense  quantities  of  dried  cow-dung  were  stacked  like  cord-wood. 
The  women  squatting  over  the  fire  in  the  center  of  one  of  the  huts 
handled  fuel  and  food  at  one  and  the  same  time.  Though  they  were 
barefoot  and  scantily  clad,  the  men  wore  heavy,  home-knit  wool  stock- 
ings to  their  knees,  and  crude  moccasins  of  a scrip  of  hairy  cowhide, 
drawn  together  over  the  foot  with  a “ puckering  string  ” of  rawhide. 
The  males  spoke  considerable  Spanish,  but  the  women  knew,  or  pre- 

310 


THE  ROOF  OF  PERU 


tended  to  know,  only  Quichua.  There  were  attached  to  the  place  at 
least  a score  of  dogs,  who  set  up  a head-splitting  chorus  as  often  as  I 
stirred,  and  at  few-minute  intervals  even  without  that  provocation. 
Across  the  shallow  hollow  the  long  line  of  snow-clad  peaks  that  had 
grown  up  along  the  entire  eastern  horizon  during  the  day  stood  forth 
in  bold  and  impressive  majesty  in  the  light  of  evening,  a light  that 
seemed  strained  through  purple-tinted  crystals. 

When  the  mountain  cold  settled  down  like  an  icy  sheet,  I asked  where 
I might  sleep. 

“ Why,  there  in  the  corredor,  to  be  sure,”  mumbled  the  Indian. 

“ We  gente  blanca  have  not  the  indifference  to  cold  of  los  naturales,” 
I replied. 

“ Well,  then,  here  in  the  kitchen,”  he  grumbled. 

“ How  about  that  casita  ? ” I asked,  pointing  to  a pampa-grass  lean-to 
against  the  largest  hut. 

“ That  is  where  the  family  sleeps.” 

“ And  that?  ” I persisted,  indicating  a structure  of  beehive  or  beaver- 
house  shape,  built  entirely  of  ichu  and  with  a rounded  door  not  three 
feet  high,  that  stood  forth  on  a knoll  behind  the  others. 

But  that,  it  seemed,  was  where  the  watchman  slept  — though  what 
he  watched  was  not  apparent.  After  a long  conference  in  Quichua, 
however,  this  was  assigned  me  with  sullen  grace ; a boy  was  sent 
to  drag  out  the  “ watchman’s  ” bed  of  sheepskins,  and  I struggled 
up  to  the  shelter  with  saddle,  pack,  and  equipment,  and  crawled  inside 
on  hands  and  knees.  The  choza  was  constructed  on  the  same  plan 
as  the  wigwams  of  the  American  “ red  men,” — a pole  frame  set  up 
cone-shaped  and  covered  with  mountain  grass,  through  which  the  bit- 
ter wind  that  swept  across  this  sterile  upland  cut  as  a knife  through 
cheese-cloth,  and  so  low  that  even  in  the  center  I could  barely  stand 
upright  on  my  knees.  The  chusco  had  been  turned  over  to  a boy 
who  was  to  watch  it  all  night  for  a week’s  wage.  It  was  not  that  I 
took  much  stock  in  the  Indian’s  assertion  that  there  was  horse-steal- 
ing in  these  parts;  but  I hoped  by  this  arrangement  to  forestall  any  ras- 
cality he  might  himself  set  afoot.  The  “ watching,”  however,  was  evi- 
dently by  some  species  of  aboriginal  telepathy;  for  not  only  was  no 
sign  of  a guardian  to  be  seen  as  often  as  I crawled  out  into  that  in- 
terminable night,  but  when  morning  came  the  head  of  the  household 
greeted  me  with  : 

“ El  chusco  se  ha  perdido  — the  animal  has  lost  itself.” 

“ Lost ! ” I cried. 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


“ Si,  senor,  but  it  will  be  found  again.  The  boy  has  already  been 
sent  to  search  for  it.” 

How  even  my  long-experienced  instinct  for  guessing  aright  among 
a hundred  splendid  chances  to  go  astray  saved  me  from  getting  hope- 
lessly lost  during  that  day,  I have  never  been  able  to  fathom.  Across 
the  utterly  uninhabited  and  almost  untraveled  mountain-top  the  trail 
was  at  best  faintly  marked,  and  finally,  beyond  the  cold,  blue  lake  of 
Lauracocha,  reputed  the  real  source  of  the  Amazon,  it  disappeared  alto- 
gether. For  hours  I prodded  my  wretched  imitation  of  a horse  for- 
ward by  compass  over  hill  and  dale,  and  by  some  stroke  of  luck  fell 
upon  the  trail  again  beyond.  Soon  the  pampa  gave  way  to  green  and 
tremulous  sod,  and  a swamp  in  which  I all  but  mired  the  animal  beyond 
recovery.  Nor  did  the  route  hold  to  the  same  direction,  but  frequently 
sidestepped  unexpectedly  for  no  apparent  reason,  and  it  was  only  by  the 
general  lay  of  the  hills  and  the  instinct  of  long  practice  that  I picked  it 
up  again.  Once  it  split  evenly,  and  the  branch  I chose  led  far  up  the 
face  of  a thousand-foot  cliff,  the  path  hewn  in  the  sheer  wall  growing 
ever  narrower,  until  the  animal  thumped  my  knee  against  the  stone 
precipice  and  all  but  pitched  us  headlong  into  the  appalling  ravine 
below.  To  dismount  was  no  simple  task,  and  had  the  horse  been  a 
foot  longer  I should  not  have  succeeded  in  turning  him  around  and 
leading  the  way  back  to  the  fork.  On  the  other  side  of  the  peak  was 
a great  natural  stone  stairway,  down  which  the  animal  slipped  and 
dropped  with  a painful  succession  of  jolts.  The  gorge  narrowed  and 
deepened ; then  suddenly,  close  at  hand  on  the  steep  flank  of  the  moun- 
tain, appeared  the  first  llamas  I had  seen  in  Peru,  a whole  flock  of 
them.  From  then  on  they  were  so  frequent  that  within  the  next  half- 
hour  I had  seen  far  more  llamas  than  in  all  the  rest  of  my  life.  A new 
costume  for  men,  at  first  sight  ludicrous,  came  into  evidence  almost  at 
the  same  time.  Instead  of  trousers  they  wore  very  roomy,  dark-col- 
ored breeches,  cut  off  exactly  at  the  knee,  so  that  the  first  glimpse  of 
their  wearers  at  a distance  was  little  short  of  startling,  suggesting  for 
a moment  the  astounding  incongruity  of  an  Indian  woman  sporting 
the  skirt  of  a ballet-dancer.  Below  these  garments  they  wore  the  long, 
knitted  wool  stockings,  gray  or  black,  and  the  hairy  cowhide  moc- 
casins that  had  first  appeared  a few  days  before,  and  as  they  passed 
me  they  snatched  off  their  heavy,  brown  felt  hats  with  some  mum- 
bled greeting  in  Quichua. 

While  enjoying  a racking  fever  in  the  comparatively  comfortable 
home  of  the  gobernador  of  Yanahuanca,  I learned  that  there  were  two 

312 


THE  ROOF  OF  PERU 


ways  of  reaching  Cerro  de  Pasco.  One  was  to  ride  nine  bitter-cold 
leagues  across  a trackless  puna,  on  which  a lone  gringo  was  sure  to  get 
lost  and  die  of  exposure ; the  other  was  to  travel  about  half  that  dis- 
tance by  a well-marked  road  to  Goyllarisquisca,  where  los  americanos 
have  their  coal  mines  and  whence  there  ran  a daily  train.  I could  not 
believe  that  fate  would  be  so  crude  a practical  joker  as  to  let  a man 
who  had  found  his  way  clear  from  Bogota  go  astray  on  the  last  day 
of  his  journey,  but  I could  easily  conceive  of  the  wreck  of  a horse 
wilting  between  my  leaden  legs  somewhere  out  on  the  unmarked 
pampa ; moreover,  the  sight  of  a railroad  would  be  a comparatively 
new  experience.  I decided  on  the  shorter  route. 

It  necessitated  the  gobernador  calling  me  at  two  in  the  morning,  be- 
fore a raging  fever  had  entirely  burned  itself  out.  An  Indian  in 
flowing  breeches,  leading  a “ horse  ” that  was  to  bring  back  some  ar- 
rival by  train,  and  another  astride  a pitifully  small  pony,  led  the  way 
out  into  the  luminous  star-lit  night.  A good  road  tacked  gradually 
upward  through  a sleeping  village,  hanging  like  some  prehensile  crea- 
ture on  the  swift  hillside,  where  the  dogs  sang  us  a rousing  chorus, 
and  lifted  us  in  some  three  hours  to  the  razor-backed  summit  of  a 
ridge,  down  the  further  slope  of  which  sprawled  headlong  a still  larger 
town,  fantastic  of  profile  in  the  morning  starlight.  We  labyrinthed 
through  it,  meeting  scores  of  panty-clad  and  moccasined  Indians  and 
barefoot  women  and  girls  toiling  marketward  under  atrocious  bur- 
dens ; for  the  day  was  Sunday.  Below  the  town  we  came  out  on  a 
road  paralleling  a stupendous  gorge ; and  across  it,  so  high  above  that  I 
could  scarcely  believe  it  possible  a cluster  of  electric  lights,  suspended 
in  the  night  between  earth  and  heaven,  mingled  with  the  stars  and  half 
blotted  out  at  intervals  by  the  smoke,  of  American  industry,  marked 
Goyllarisquisca,  a city  of  the  sky,  to  see  which  we  must  crane  our 
necks  like  countrymen  at  the  foot  of  man’s  mightiest  monument. 
The  stars  went  out  one  by  one,  like  gas-jets  turned  off  by  hurrying 
street-lighters ; the  luminous  night  turned  to  colorless  opaque  dawn,  in 
which  the  jagged  Sierra  stood  out  flat  and  featureless  as  if  cut  out  of 
cardboard.  We  went  down  and  ever  down  into  an  unconscionable 
gorge,  to  cross  — such  is  the  ghastly  futility  of  Latin-America  — an 
insignificant  stream ; then  quickly  began  to  climb  again.  There  was  a 
path  straight  up  the  mountain-side  to  Goyllarisquisca,  a path  which  a 
man  unsusceptible  to  dizziness,  and  capable  of  climbing  a steep  stair- 
way of  a hundred  thousand  steps  without  guard-rails  or  a landing  on 
which  to  pause  for  breath,  might  cover  in  a half-hour.  Instead,  we 

313 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


wound  corkscrew-wise  around  the  entire  mountain,  through  another 
town,  fantastic  in  its  perpendicular  setting  as  the  last,  yet  reduced  in 
the  disillusioning  light  of  day  to  its  drab,  mud-built  reality;  and  un- 
covering others  pitched  at  queer  places  on  unattainable  noses  and 
gouged-out  hollows  of  the  range  in  which  the  shadows  still  lurked  like 
skulking  bandits.  The  mountains  beyond  were  garbed  from  head  to 
foot  in  white  robes,  and  in  the  valleys  lay  seas  of  mist  from  which 
emerged  crags  and  peaks  like  uninhabited,  rocky  islands.  Less  beau- 
tiful, perhaps,  in  its  aspect  than  the  more  colorful  Alps,  the  scene 
vastly  outdid  these  in  its  rugged,  masculine  grandeur.  Little  by  little 
we  fell  in  with  an  almost  unbroken  procession  of  Indians ; here  and 
there  one  clad  in  exotic  overalls  whispered  the  approach  of  American 
influence,  and  at  length  our  breathless  animals  staggered  over  the  last 
ridge  into  the  village  of  the  tongue-loosening  name. 

Before  me  lay  a small  Pittsburgh,  not  so  small  at  that,  with  great 
cranes  swinging  across  the  gorges,  unsentimental  stone  buildings  roar- 
ing and  matter-of-fact  chimneys  belching  forth  the  sooty  smoke  of  in- 
dustry. Long  rows  of  decent  living-quarters  were  interspersed  with 
longer  ones  of  box  and  flat  cars,  and  sprawling  about  the  higher  levels 
were  native  shacks  so  tinged  with  the  foreign  influence  that  even  a 
stove-pipe  protruded  here  and  there  from  their  roofs  of  wavy  sheet- 
iron.  Across  the  scene  floated  the  sweet  music  of  a deep-voiced 
American  train  whistle,  and  on  every  hand  was  the  evidence  of  dili- 
gence, masculine  toil,  and  effective  doing  that  quickened  my  northern 
pulse  like  a deep  draft  of  wine.  It  was  like  coming  back  to  my  native 
world  after  a long  absence.  Scores  of  half- forgotten  things  I had 
never  before  seen  in  South  America  surged  up  about  me,  and  upon  me 
came  drowsy  contentment  that  my  struggles  were  behind  me  and  that  I 
had  already  virtually  set  foot  in  the  central  plaza  of  Lima. 

I slipped  clumsily  off  the  miserable  chusco  and  turned  him  over, 
trappings  and  all,  to  the  Indian  who  was  to  deliver  him  to  Valen- 
zuela when  he  passed  through  Yanahuanca.  My  legs  obeyed  me  sul- 
lenly, as  if  weighted  with  ball  and  chain,  and  my  physical  condition 
gave  to  my  movements  a hesitating,  deliberate  dignity.  At  the  station 
was  a restaurant  run  by  a Chinaman  with  Peruvian  assistance,  where 
the  American  influence  by  no  means  ceased  at  bacon  and  eggs,  but 
had  reached  the  height  of  butter  and  sliced  bread,  and  rosy  bottles  of 
catsup ! In  a corner  of  the  room  a coal-stove  blazed  merrily,  the  first 
artificial  heat  I had  felt  in  a long  two  years.  I wandered  out  upon  the 
platform.  At  the  far  end  stood  a man  fondling  a dog,  a real  dog,  not 

314 


THE  ROOF  OF  PERU 


an  Andean  cur,  and  as  I approached  he  protested  affectionately  and  in- 
effectually : 

“ Now  you  get  down ; you  ’re  dirtying  my  pants.” 

There  was  no  mistaking  that  vocabulary,  even  if  the  strangely  nasal 
accent  that  struck  my  unaccustomed  ear  rudely  had  not  sufficed  to  be- 
tray the  speaker’s  nationality.  Peruvians  do  not  fondle  dogs ; nor  do 
they  refer  to  their  nether  garments  in  that  abrupt  and  familiar  fashion. 
I was  soon  seated  in  a comfortable  office-chair,  a stack  of  New  York 
papers  beside  me.  But  I gave  up  in  dispair  explaining  how  I had 
come  to  Goyll  — well,  pronounce  it  yourself  — without  having  ever 
been  either  in  Lima  or  “ the  Cerro  ” ; and  I fancy  I had  convinced  my 
host  of  nothing,  except  that  I was  a clumsy  and  unconscionable  liar, 
before  the  giant  Baldwin  rolled  in,  dragging  behind  it  a half-dozen 
full-sized  American  freight-cars,  as  if  some  branch  of  the  railways  of 
my  own  land  had  pierced  this  lofty  nook  of  the  Andes. 

The  official  business  of  the  line  is  to  transport  coal  to  the  mines  at 
Cerro  de  Pasco,  and  passengers  are  accepted  only  on  suffrance.  The 
“ first-class  ” coach  was  the  familiar  old  American  caboose,  with  a line 
of  leather  cushions  along  the  walls  and  a coal  stove  in  the  center.  It 
was  empty  when  I entered,  but  had  I not  almost  forgotten  the  ways  of 
Latin-American  travelers,  I should  not  have  been  so  surprised  when 
it  at  length  filled  to  overflowing  with  noisy,  over-dressed  native 
women,  a few  men  of  the  white-collar  class,  drummers  for  the  most 
part,  hideous  with  rings,  and  every  species  of  bundle  and  cumbersome 
baggage.  Then  two  robust  American  trainmen,  genuine  as  if  they  had 
that  moment  been  picked  off  the  top  of  a transcontinental  freight-car, 
stamped  in,  climbed  into  their  cupola,  and  we  were  off. 

It  was  the  reaction,  no  doubt,  from  the  straining  months  behind  me 
that  brought  on  a paludismo  that  set  me  shaking  even  under  my  poncho. 
But  the  unaccustomed  artificial  heat  all  but  choked  me,  and  when  I 
had  accepted  an  orange,  and  gravely  refused  the  whiskey,  brandy,  and 
black  coffee  my  sympathetic  fellow-passengers  would  have  forced  upon 
me  as  sure  cures,  I climbed  into  the  cupola.  The  landscape  would  not 
have  been  joyful  under  the  best  of  conditions.  A bare  mountain-top, 
faintly  rolling,  its  frosty  soil  cherishing  no  vegetation  except  the  dreary 
yellow-brown  ichu  of  the  uplands,  stretched  monotonously  away  on 
every  hand,  its  surface  flooded  with  the  brilliant,  thin  sunshine  of 
Andean  plateaux  and  mottled  here  and  there  with  fleecy  cloud  shadows. 
Now  and  then  a flock  of  llamas  lifted  their  absurd  heads  to  gaze 
after  us  as  we  sped  past.  Once  or  twice  we  stopped  at  a wind- 

315 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


threshed  mud-town,  standing  out  pitifully  unsheltered  on  the  treeless 
waste,  halted  an  hour  at  grimy,  smoke-belching  La  Fundicion  with  its 
smelters,  and  drew  up  at  dusk  in  bare  and  dreary  Cerro  de  Pasco.  It 
was  June  22,  three  months  from  the  Peruvian  frontier  and  2269  miles 
from  Bogota,  of  which  I had  covered  243  on  horseback  and  twenty-five 
by  rail. 

On  the  train  I had  been  the  storm-center  of  a heated  difference  of 
opinion.  The  Peruvian  passengers  contended  that  I should  descend 
by  the  morning  express  to  Lima,  where  I would  quickly  recover  under 
the  care  of  famous  physicians  of  the  capital;  the  train-crew  that  I 
should  enter  the  hospital  of  the  American  mining  company  on  “ the 
Hill.”  There  could  be  no  debate  between  entrusting  myself  again  to 
the  careless  inefficiency  of  native  practitioners,  and  the  happy  oppor- 
tunity of  entering  an  institution  conducted  by  men  of  my  own  race. 
When  I had  found  a boy  to  carry  my  baggage,  I set  out  with  high 
hopes,  if  slow  steps,  for  the  American  hospital. 

It  was  an  imposing,  one-story  building,  covering  a space  equal  to  a 
city  block  and  forming  a hollow  square  around  an  extensive  cement- 
floored  patio,  on  the  far  edge  of  the  drear  and  colorless  American  min- 
ing town,  well  removed  from  its  smoke  and  swirling  dust  and  disturb- 
ing noises.  My  welcome  was  not,  to  be  sure,  exactly  what  a morbid 
imagination  had  led  me  to  picture,  but  that  was  no  doubt  due  to  the 
fact  that  both  doctors  were  at  the  moment  absent.  The  head-nurse 
overcame  in  time  her  inclination  to  refuse  me  admittance,  and  sent  an 
Indian  boy,  closely  related  in  personal  habits  to  the  occupants  of  moun- 
tain-top chozas,  to  show  me  into  a ward.  In  appearance  it  was  all 
that  a hospital  ward  should  be,  its  ten  imported  cots  all  unoccupied. 
The  boy  jerked  his  head  sidewise  toward  a chair  and  disappeared. 
Two  empty  hours  dragged  funereally  by.  Then  another  Indian  youth, 
startlingly  like  a personification  of  squalor  and  uncleanliness  in  a 
masque  gotten  up  by  some  stern  disciple  of  the  Zola  school  of  realism, 
burst  in  upon  my  feverish  dreams,  and  before  I could  raise  a hand  in 
protest  thrust  a thermometer  into  my  mouth.  Evidently  it  was  his 
assigned  duty  to  take  the  temperature  of  anyone  caught  on  the  premises. 
Had  I come  into  the  ward  to  recane  the  chairs,  no  doubt  he  would  have 
forced  a thermometer  down  my  throat,  like  some  automatic  machine 
worked  by  springs,  removed  and  shaken  it,  wiped  it  on  the  seat  of  his 
trousers,  and  pattered  away  on  his  bare  feet. 

Long  after  dark  the  fresh  and  rosy  assistant-doctor  dashed  into  the 
room.  But  he  had  no  time  to  give  attention  to  my  symptoms  and  ex- 

316 


The  fortress  of  the  former  Inca  city  of  Huanaco  el  Viejo,  far  up  on  the  now  uninhabited 
pampa  above  the  sheltering  valley  in  which  cowers  the  modern  city  of  the  same  name 


A typical  residence  of  the  Indians  of  the  high  paramos , built  of  heaped-up  stones  and  brown 
icAu-grass;  so  low  one  cannot  stand  upright  in  it.  Here  the  family  sleeps  on  the  uneven 
earth  floor,  or  on  a hairy  cowhide,  with  their  yellow  curs,  guinea-pigs,  and  other 
domestic  animals.  Cooking  is  done  outside  over  a fire  of  ichu  or  dung 


THE  ROOF  OF  PERU 


planations,  for  dinner  was  about  to  be  served,  and  ordering  me  to  get 
into  a bed,  he  dashed  for  the  door  again.  I protested  that  I had 
brought  with  me  the  unpleasant  evidence  of  long  Andean  travel,  and 
he  jerked  a thumb  over  his  shoulder  with  a parting  mumble  of  “ bath- 
room.” There  was  one,  even  as  he  had  indicated,  with  all  modern 
appliances ; but  like  most  new-fangled  inventions  transplanted  to  the 
Andes,  it  did  not  “ function.’’  Another  example  of  the  Peruvian  ab- 
horrence of  soap  was  ordered  to  bring  a half-dozen  pails  of  hot  water, 
which  in  his  haste  to  be  done  with  the  task  he  translate^  into  the 
Castilian  for  luke-warm ; and  I crawled  at  last  into  one  of  the  cots. 
Soon  afterward  the  Indian  boy  came  to  climb  into  another,  in  the 
same  identical  rags  he  wore  by  day.  The  dinner  was  evidently  a pro- 
longed and  engaging  function,  for  neither  the  doctor  nor  any  other 
sign  of  human  interest  appeared  again  during  a night  in  which  I 
tossed  incessantly  with  fever,  while  the  ward  blazed  with  electric 
lights  and  the  ineffectual  steam-pipes  thumped  and  pounded  like  an 
adjacent  boiler-factory. 

I am  happy  to  be  able  to  say  that  neither  the  two  physicians,  whom 
we  will  disguise  under  the  pseudonyms  of  Dr.  F and  Dr.  D,  nor  the 
head-nurse,  of  the  American  hospital  were  my  fellow-countrymen ; 
they  came  from  further  north.  Materially  an  establishment  to  boast 
of,  its  condition  in  anything  touched  by  the  personal  equation  was  in- 
credible. Homeopathic  in  creed,  it  put  its  trust  in  pills,  and  left  the 
rest  to  eight  immature  Indians,  as  devoid  of  human  instincts  as  of 
supervision.  In  a second  cheerless,  bare  ward  adjoining  the  one  I 
occupied  were  a score  of  injured  or  ailing  Indian  workmen;  yet  no 
precaution  whatever  was  taken  to  keep  infection  from  passing  from 
one  room  to  the  other.  A single  thermometer  served  all  alike.  Twice 
a day  the  automatic  youth  of  the  bare  feet  went  the  rounds  in  quest 
of  temperatures,  carrying  a bottle  of  antiseptic  so  low  in  stock  that  it 
did  not  reach  a third  as  far  up  the  instrument  as  did  the  lips  of  patients ; 
and  too  indolent  to  go  to  the  dispensary  for  cotton,  he  wiped  it  after 
each  use  on  whatever  came  within  reach, — his  sleeve,  his  trousers,  or 
the  noisome  rag  each  servant  carried  over  a shoulder  in  guise  of 
napkin.  If  the  ten  cots  had  been  full,  instead  of  the  four-that  repre- 
sented the  maximum  of  occupancy  during  my  stay,  I do  not  know  what 
habits  we  might  have  adopted ; for  there  were  only  three  cups,  three 
tablespoons,  and  one  teaspoon  attached  to  the  ward.  The  printed 
rules  announced  that  meal-hours  were  7;  10;  and  5:30.  In  practice 
they  averaged:  Breakfast,  8:40  to  9,  Dinner,  1 to  1:30,  and  Supper, 

3U 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


about  8.  The  same  stern  placard  called  attention  to  the  fact  that 
visitors  were  admitted  only  on  Sunday  afternoons.  Yet  scarcely  a 
night  passed  without  a mob  of  Indians  or  cholos,  male  and  female, 
friends  of  the  internes  or  of  some  inmate,  stamping  into  the  ward  as 
soon  as  darkness  had  settled  down,  and  often  keeping  up  an  uproar 
until  long  after  midnight.  Then  it  was  the  unexplainable  custom,  on 
those  days  set  for  that  ceremony,  to  drag  out  a fire-hose  at  four  in 
the  morning  and  “ wash  down  ” the  ward  like  the  deck  of  a ship, 
flooding  tfie  floor  an  inch  or  more  deep  in  icy  highland  water,  through 
which  patients  put  to  that  necessity  might  wade  to  and  from  their  cots. 

In  the  sumptuous  quarters  of  physicians  and  nurses,  occupying  all 
the  front  half  of  the  building,  the  formal  repasts  were  provided  with 
every  obtainable  delicacy,  and  enlivened  with  music  and  gaiety.  In 
the  wards  the  ostensibly  well-regulated  diet  monotonously  reduced  it- 
self in  practice  to  the  leathery  “ green  ” beefsteaks  of  the  Andes  and 
two  or  three  other  articles  sanctioned  by  prehistoric  Andean  costumbre. 
The  Latin-American  racial  lack  of  initiative  is  nowhere  more  in  evi- 
dence than  in  the  kitchen.  If  doctor  or  nurse  prescribed  some  special 
dish  for  a patient,  there  came  back  in  answer  — after  authority  had  dis- 
appeared from  the  scene  — that  threadbare  Peruvian  prevarication, 
“ No  hay  ” ; which  meant  that  the  cook  was  giving  vent  to  his  tempera- 
mental grouchiness,  was  too  lazy  to  set  another  pot  on  the  fire,  or  was 
keeping  the  delicacy  for  himself  or  some  “ compadre.”  The  youthful 
assistant-physician,  trained  in  the  far  north,  was  supremely  ignorant  of 
tropical  diseases,  and,  what  was  worse,  had  no  inclination  to  add  to  his 
professional  knowledge.  Plis  interests  were  confined  to  the  contents 
of  a row  of  unhomeopathic  bottles  and  the  manipulation  of  fifty-two 
small  cardboards  at  the  club-rooms  a few  blocks  away,  where  he  might 
be  found  — though  not  easily  called  — at  almost  any  hour,  ensconced 
in  one  of  the  leather-upholstered  lounges  before  the  blazing  fire-place. 
The  “ gringa  ” head-nurse  chose  to  do  duty  by  day,  and  arising  every 
forenoon,  came  in  to  smile  at  each  of  us  about  ten,  and  sometimes 
again  in  the  early  afternoon,  before  it  was  time  to  dress  for  her  daily 
“ bridge  ” and  tea.  In  a loquacious  moment  she  confided  to  me  that  she 
“ just  loved  ” to  travel  and,  having  always  longed  to  see  “ strange  for- 
eign countries  like  Peru,”  had  been  delighted  to  get  an  appointment  to 
spend  a year  or  two  in  it.  The  assistant-nurse  was  the  most  disturb- 
ingly beautiful  Peruvian  it  had  so  far  been  my  fortune  to  set  eyes  upon, 
— and  she  took  the  customary  advantage  of  that  fact  by  making  no 
effort  to  be  anything  else.  Being  a subordinate,  she  was  obliged  to  take 

318 


THE  ROOF  OF  PERU 


the  night-shift;  but  being  also  a Peruvian,  she  did  not  often  permit 
that  misfortune  to  break  her  night’s  rest. 

Five  days  I had  studied  its  ceiling  when  the  morning  brought  Dr. 
F,  physician  in  chief,  who  had  been  absent  on  a round  of  the  com- 
pany’s hospitals,  hurrying  into  the  ward.  He  was  a far  more  suc- 
cessful practitioner  than  his  youthful  assistant  — in  that  he  made  the 
daily  round  in  about  five  minutes  less  than  the  ten  which  Dr.  D 
squandered.  Two  or  three  mornings  later  he  paused  at  my  cot  to 
grumble  querulously : 

“ It ’s  funny  you  don’t  get  better.  It  must  be  you  are  not 

making  up  your  mind  to.  Mental  attitude,  you  know.  As  soon  as 
you  had  that  purge,  these  pills  should  have  taken  hold  at  once.” 

“ That  what  ? ” I murmured. 

“ Oh,  don’t  be  stupid ! The  castor-oil  Dr.  D gave  you  a day  after 
you  turned  up  here ; the  basis  of  our  system  of  treatment.” 

“ I have  had  only  pills.” 

“Nonsense!  Dr.  D,  what  day  did  this  man  have  his  purge?” 

“ I prescribed  it  last  Monday,”  yawned  the  assistant. 

“ Of  course.  Now  . . .” 

“ But  I assure  you  I have  yet  to  know  the  taste  of  castor-oil.” 

“ Who  gave  him  the  oil  ? ” the  doctor  flung  over  a shoulder. 

“ Senorita  ,”  replied  the  subordinate,  naming  the  Peruvian 

nurse. 

She  chanced  to  pass  the  door  in  fetching  street-garb  a moment  later, 
and  was  called  in  to  confirm  the  statement. 

“Ah,  es  verdad!”  she  lisped,  in  her  beautiful  nonchalance,  “Me 
olvide  — I forgot,”  and  with  a bewitching  smile  at  the  physicians  she 
hurried  away  to  her  daytime  engagements. 

Determined  not  to  celebrate  my  nation’s  birthday  as  I had  my  own, 
I forced  my  leaden  legs  to  carry  me  on  an  afternoon  stroll  through  the 
famous  mining  town.  The  steel-blue  skies  of  Cerro  de  Pasco,  three 
miles  aloft  and  boasting  itself  the  highest  city  in  the  world,  are  clear 
beyond  any  description  in  mere  words.  Not  once  during  my  sojourn 
there  was  the  penetrating  brilliancy  flecked  by  the  slightest  whiff  of 
cloud.  The  sun  blazed  down  with  an  intensity  that  burned  the  cheeks 
as  at  the  open  mouth  of  a puddling-furnace ; yet  even  at  blinding 
noon-time  the  cold  had  a power  of  penetration  unknown  to  a northern 
mid-winter  day  on  which  the  mercury  falls  far  lower.  Those  who  as- 
cend “ the  Hill  ” from  Lima  complain  of  a leaden  inertia  and  pains 
varying  in  intensity  and  duration,  brought  on  by  an  altitude  that  is 

319 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


fatal  to  weak  hearts  and  to  victims  of  pneumonia.  Inured  to  the 
heights  and  scantiness  of  air  almost  unbrokenly  from  far-off  Bogota,  I 
had  no  consciousness  of  any  such  effects. 

Nearly  a mile  from  the  hospital,  the  American  town,  of  stone  build- 
ings and  even  less  attractive  structures,  such  as  the  “ Tin  Can,”  an 
ugly,  red,  sheet-iron  barracks  that  houses  the  garden  variety  of  gringo 
employees,  scattered  among  bare,  protruding  rocks  of  a landscape 
dreary  beyond  conception,  gives  way  to  the  old  familiar  Peruvian 
huts  and  hovels.  These,  in  turn,  develop  further  on  into  two-story 
dwellings  above  and  shops  below,  often  quaint  and  striking  in  archi- 
tecture. If  any  city  of  Peru  may  be  called  “ unique  ” in  appearance, 
it  is  “ el  Cerro.”  Even  in  the  center  of  the  town,  roofs  of  ancient, 
weather-faded  straw  alternate  with  those  of  wavy  sheet-iron ; instead 
of  the  monotonously  square  blocks  of  other  Andean  cities,  its  older 
section  is  a tangle  of  narrow  streets  and  misshapen  buildings,  like  a 
change  from  our  Middle  West  to  Boston.  Perched  on  the  summit  of 
the  world,  with  scarcely  a knoll  overtopping  it,  or  the  suggestion  of  a 
shrub  to  shelter  it,  “ the  Cerro  ” is  the  unhampered  playground  of  icy 
mountain  winds  laden  with  coal-dust,  stinging  sand,  and  the  soot  and 
smoke  and  powdered  ore  from  its  mines.  Bronzed  foreigners  and 
miners  in  leather  leggings  and  hob-nailed  boots,  squeaking  through  the 
streets  afoot,  or  astride  Texas-saddled  mules,  lend  the  place  an  air  of 
modernity,  for  all  its  swarms  of  bovine-mannered  Indians.  In  con- 
trast, droves  of  llamas,  with  gaily  colored  ribbons  in  their  ears,  slip 
past  in  noiseless  dignity,  or  stand  in  patient  groups  before  a chicheria, 
awaiting  their  drivers.  The  hardware  and  similar  trades  offer  stocks 
unknown  to  those  sections  of  the  Andes  where  the  imports  depend  on 
transportation  “ en  lomo  de  mula.”  Even  the  pulperias  are  well-sup- 
plied with  foodstuffs,  testifying  to  the  American  influence.  From  a 
dust-swirling  knoll  rising  a bit  above  the  rest  the  eye  is  gladdened  by 
the  glimpse  of  a cold-blue  lake  of  considerable  size,  strangely  beauti- 
ful in  its  drear  and  dismal  setting.  From  this  point  of  vantage,  too, 
the  stranger  becomes  aware  that  “ el  Cerro  ” is  much  more  of  a city 
than  he  suspected,  filling  the  great  lap  of  a repulsive,  barren  range,  and 
stretching  away  in  several  directions  under  belching  smoke-stacks. 

Twelve  days  I had  tarried  in  Cerro  de  Pasco,  and  had  advanced  from 
my  original  ailment  to  one  distinctly  more  serious,  when  I concluded  to 
descend  to  Lima  while  I still  had  strength  to  do  so.  The  company 
physician-in-chief  collected  a fee  that  more  than  doubled  my  expendi- 
tures since  leaving  Quito,  and  spared  himself  the  annoyance  of  penning 

320 


The  arrieros  with  whom  I left  Huallanga,  and  the  family  inhabiting  the  hut  shown  in  the 

preceding  picture 


The  immaculate  staff  of  the  Cerro  de  Pasco  hospital 


THE  ROOF  OF  PERU 


a receipt,  or  of  any  other  formality  beyond  that  of  dropping  the  hand- 
ful of  gold  sovereigns  into  his  pocket  on  his  breathless  morning  round. 
The  night  sky  was  turning  slightly  more  transparent  along  the  cold 
eastern  horizon  when  I tottered  out  of  the  hospitable  Cerro  de  Pasco 
hospital  on  my  way  to  the  station.  The  second-class  car  was  a stove- 
less ice-box,  densely  packed  with  Indians  and  all  the  bath- fearing  ab- 
original is  accustomed  to  carry  with  him.  A glance  at  it  sufficed  to 
dissipate  my  resolution  to  save  a sovereign  from  the  wreck  of  my  for- 
tune. The  first-class  coach  was  an  American  car  scantily  filled  with 
white-collar  Peruvians  and  weather-,  experience-,  and  liquor-marked 
Americans  under  forty,  “ husky  ” in  build  and  untrammelled  in  man- 
ners. The  wintry  July  dawn  climbed  up  over  the  far  edge  of  the 
bleak,  treeless  world,  and  at  Smelter,  cheerless  beyond  words  in  the 
new-born  daylight,  we  were  joined  by  more  cold-faced  Americans, 
wrapped,  as  were  also  many  of  the  natives,  in  huge  neck-roll  sweaters. 
Dressed  even  in  all  the  clothing  I possessed,  I kept  my  poncho  close 
about  me,  for  the  coal-stove  in  the  front  end  of  the  car  was  no  match 
for  the  frigidity  of  the  vast  ichu-brown  pampa  de  Junin  across  which 
we  were  soon  speeding.  Only  by  frequently  scratching  a peep-hole  in 
the  frosted  window  could  I gaze  out  upon  the  drear  yellow  world,  with 
its  snow  peaks  rising  slightly  above  it  in  the  distance  and  its  great 
flocks  of  cold-impervious  llamas  feeding  along  the  way  between  ice- 
coated  streams  and  pools.  Off  in  both  directions  stood  scattered,  stone 
huts  with  pampa-grass  roofs,  before  which  barefoot  (brr!)  Indian 
women  stood  or  squatted,  and  scantily  clad  children  gazed  after  the 
train  with  the  stolidity  and  indifference  to  the  bitter  cold  of  the  adobe 
images  they  somehow  suggested.  Here  was  the  scene  of  the  great 
battle  of  Junin  in  which  the  soldiers  of  Bolivar  defeated  the  Spanish 
host ; but  it  is  not  likely  that  either  pursued  or  pursuers  dripped  with 
perspiration.  A dreary  walk,  indeed,  this  would  have  been  across  the 
icy,  endless,  yellow  pampa. 

A brilliant  sun  popped  up  instantly  in  a faultless  sky,  like  some 
jack-in-the-box  suddenly  released;  but  though  it  flooded  all  the  visible 
world  with  golden  light,  it  brought  slight  warmth.  Beside  each  seat  of 
our  car  was  an  electric  button,  and  beneath  it  a list  of  possibilities,  in 
English  and  Spanish.  One  had  only  to  press  it  and  presto ! a big 
black  negro  — no,  my  memories  of  other  days  deceive  me ; no  big 
black  negro  would  get  this  high  in  the  world,  unless  he  were  dragged 
there  by  main  force  — a little,  dapper,  noiseless,  inscrutable,  white- 
jacketed  Chinaman  slipped  down  upon  one  and  lent  an  attentive,  yet 

321 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


haughty  ear  into  which  one  whispered  the  desires  of  the  inner  man, 
tempered  by  a subconscious  regard  for  one’s  purse ; calling  modestly 
for  toast  and  coffee,  if  one  were  a mere  American  vagabond  who  had 
recently  fallen  among  thiev  — beg  pardon,  physicians ; or  for  the 
“ whole  damn  works,”  which  meant  the  same  coffee  and  toast  plus  a 
plate  of  bacon  and  eggs,  if  one  were  an  American  miner  homeward 
bound,  to  whom  money  is  as  water  to  the  man  whose  pocket  holdeth  a 
quart  bottle  of  concentrated  joyfulness.  Across  the  aisle  were  two 
such,  from  whom  sounded  now  and  then  some  pleasant  anticipation 
of  homecoming: 

“ An’  when  I get  back  to  Pittsburgh  I ’m  goin’  into  the House 

bar  and  tell  Joe  to  mix  me  a real,  honest-to-God  gin-ricky.  An’  when 
he  says  ‘Where  t’ell  you  been  these  two  years,  Hank?’  I’ll  jus’  say 
‘ Diggin’  coal  down  in  Goyllaris  — hie  — quisca,  Joe,’  an’  he  ’ll  call  the 
bouncer  to  throw  me  out.” 

A big,  blue  lake,  Chinchaycocha,  on  the  distant  right  drew  the  eyes 
toward  it;  then  came  a brief  halt  at  the  town  of  Junin,  an  extensive 
collection  of  cobble-stone  huts  and  fences,  with  a two-tower  church  in 
their  midst  and  steam  rising  on  the  wintry  air  from  the  nostrils  of 
every  living  being.  Then  at  last,  after  an  extended,  wandering  search, 
the  train  found  the  rocky  bed  of  a small  river,  and  wound  and  squirmed 
with  it  through  half-hidden  openings  in  the  hills  until  a long-drawn 
masculine  whistle  caused  us  to  scratch  a new  peep-hole  in  the  frosted 
window,  to  find  Oroya  rising  up  to  meet  us. 

Here  the  American  train  and  roadbed  abandoned  us  to  the  tender 
mercies  of  the  Ferrocarril  Central,  theoretically  under  English  man- 
agement, but  in  practice  dismally  Latin-American  from  cow-catcher 
to  trailing  draw-bar.  Packed  into  the  far  corner  of  a seat  upholstered 
only  in  name,  I had  frozen  from  toes  to  the  bottom  of  my  poncho  for 
two  mortal  hours  before  the  Peruvian  engineer  came  to  an  under- 
standing with  the  Peruvian  conductor  and  station-master,  and  dragged 
us  slowly  out  of  town.  From  a spot  on  the  earth  — and  nothing 
more  — called  Ticlio,  summit  of  the  line,  we  began  the  long  coast 
down  to  the  Pacific,  through  all  the  customary  65  tunnels,  67  bridges 
and  16  switchbacks,  where  for  the  brakes  to  lose  control  would  have 
been  to  land  us  in  Hades  instead  of  Lima.  Hour  after  hour  the 
arid,  savage  scenery  slid  upward.  Here  the  train  glided  serenely 
along  on  the  bottomless  edge  of  things ; now  and  again  we  came  out  di- 
rectly above,  a thousand  feet  above,  a dusty,  rock-scattered  town,  with 
of  stones  laid  on  the  sheet-iron  roofs  to  keep  them  from  es- 

322 


rows 


THE  ROOF  OF  PERU 


caping  such  dreary  surroundings,  and  zigzagged  an  hour,  often  on  six 
tracks  one  above  the  other,  down  to  it,  only  to  continue  the  descent 
as  swiftly  beyond.  A score  of  places  recalled  the  story  of  the  young 
graduate  engineer  who  protested  to  the  American  whose  name  is 
forever  linked  with  this  engineering  feat,  “ Why,  Meiggs,  we  can’t 
run  a railroad  along  there  in  that  sliding  shale ! ” “ Can’t,  eh  ? ” the 

anecdote  continues,  “ Well,  young  man,  that ’s  just  where  she ’s  got  to 
go,  and  if  you  can’t  find  room  for  her  on  the  ground,  we  ’ll  hang  her 
from  balloons.” 

Bit  by  bit  the  Andes  began  to  take  on  slight  touches  of  green.  The 
Rimac,  chattering  downward  toward  the  sea,  gave  us  more  and  more 
elbow-room,  the  well-dressed  town  of  Chosica  flashed  past  us  like  an 
oasis  of  civilization,  and  we  sped  in  truly  metropolitan  fashion  on 
down  the  darkening  valley,  surrounded  by  whole  mountains  of  broken 
rock,  tufts  of  cactus  and  a few  hardy  willows  drinking  their  life  from 
the  widening  stream,  on  toward  the  glowing  sunset  and  into  the  black 
night.  Electric  lights,  real  lights  in  their  full  candle-power,  began  to 
dot  the  darkness,  then  flashed  past  us,  throwing  their  insolent  glare 
into  our  dust-veiled  faces ; the  roar  of  a real  city,  with  clanging  street- 
cars and  rumbling  wagons  rose  about  us ; a long  station-platform 
crowded  with  an  urban  throng  came  to  a halt  beside  us,  and  I de- 
scended in  the  thickness  of  the  summer  night  in  the  City  of  Kings, 
three  miles  below  where  I had  stepped  forth  that  morning  into  the 
wintry  dawn. 


323 


CHAPTER  XIII 


ROUND  ABOUT  THE  PERUVIAN  CAPITAL 

IT  is  due,  I suppose,  to  some  error  in  my  make-up  that  my  interest 
in  any  given  corner  of  the  earth  fades  in  proportion  as  it  ap- 
proaches modern  civilization  and  easy  accessibility.  To  your 
incurable  vagabond  may  come  a momentary  thrill,  if  not  of  pleasure, 
at  least  of  contentment,  with  the  feel  of  city  pavements  once  more 
under  his  feet  after  long  hand  to  hand  combat  with  the  wilderness, 
and  the  knowledge  that  to  go  a journey  he  has  only  to  signal  an  elec- 
tric street-car  on  the  nearest  corner.  But  the  attraction  quickly  palls. 
Visions  of  the  winding  trail  soon  begin  again  to  torture  him  with 
their  solicitations,  the  placid  ways  of  urban  man  take  on  a drab  and 
colorless  artificiality,  and  once  more  the  realization  comes  that  to 
him  life  offers  genuine  satisfaction  only  when  he  is  struggling  on- 
ward toward  some  distant  and  possibly  unattainable  goal. 

Such  a place  is  Lima.  The  former  capital  of  Spanish  America 
has,  to  be  sure,  its  points  of  interest;  old  colonial  palaces  where  the 
shades  of  cloaked  viceroys  seem  still  to  linger,  cloistered  walls  in- 
closing the  tonsured  and  cowled  atmosphere  of  the  Middle  Ages,  nar- 
row streets  with  long  vistas  of  overhanging  Moorish  balconies  wherein 
still  lurks  the  charm  of  other  days.  But  these  things  are  all  but 
buried  under  the  stereotyped  conveniences  and  commonplace  manners 
of  the  modern  world.  LTpon  the  romance  and  air  of  antiquity  of  a 
Spanish  city  of  long  ago,  transplanted  to  this  sandy  coast,  has  in- 
truded the  aggressive  urge  of  commerce ; from  between  the  carved 
mahogany  bars  of  quaint  miradores  peers  the  face  of  trade ; in  and 
out  of  massive  old  wooden  street-doors  studded  with  brass  come  bales 
of  merchandise,  often  stacked  high  in  the  beautiful  patios  and  se- 
cluded retreats  of  former  generations.  Here,  for  the  first  time  in 
South  America,  were  rumors  of  strikes  and  complaints  of  the  “ serv- 
ant problem.”  Workmen  and  domestics,  advanced  already  to  a scale 
of  wages  about  half  that  of  our  own  land,  were  coming  more  and 
more  to  a knowledge  of  their  worth  and  power,  their  striving  un- 
fortunately taking  that  ultra-modern  form  of  careless  workmanship 

324 


ROUND  ABOUT  THE  PERUVIAN  CAPITAL 


and  insolence.  Here,  for  the  first  time,  the  militant  “ cost  of  living  ’’ 
weighed  down  on  the  mass  of  mankind  like  a leaden  blanket.  Lima’s 
thousand  and  one  restaurants  — why  do  none  of  them  seek  a virgin 
field  in  the  highlands  ? — serve  their  clients  with  the  mechanical  im- 
personality of  world  capitals.  Like  the  population,  these  show  that 
absence  of  a “ middle  class  ” characteristic  of  Latin-American  so- 
ciety, the  marked  contrast  of  the  great  bulk  of  sandaled  poor  rubbing 
shoulders  with  faultless  Parisian  attire ; either  they  are  repulsive 
workingmen’s  “ dumps,”  or  outwardly  regal  in  manner  and  inwardly  of 
purse-flattening  properties,  where  nothing  national  and  unique  is  to  be 
found,  unless  it  be  some  rare  local  delicacy,  such  as  asado  de  chivito, — 
roast  leg  of  young  goat.  Whatever  exclusive  and  characteristic  re- 
mains on  the  surface  is  grouped  in  and  about  the  great  covered  mar- 
ket-place, where  long  rows  of  strange  indigenous  and  familiar  foreign 
wares  stretch  in  many-hued  and  quaint  juxtaposition,  or  hovers  about 
a few  surviving  customs  of  bygone  days,  such  as  the  milkman  — who 
is  more  often  a woman  — making  his  morning  round  astride  horse 
or  mule,  with  his  cans  hanging  like  saddle-bags  from  between  his  legs. 

He  who  comes  down  upon  them  from  above  will  find  the  people  of 
the  coast  more  vivacious  than  those  of  the  chilly  upper  Andes,  where 
the  perennial  gauntness  of  natuj-e  inclines  to  perpetual  gloom.  The 
limeno  has  been  likened  to  the  Andalusian  in  his  fondness  for  dress, 
variety,  and  dissipation,  in  his  gaiety  and  quickness  of  wit,  his  open 
frankness  and  tendency  to  extravagance.  Certainly  his  speech  has 
the  lisp  of  Andalusia  — “ Do’  copita’  de  pi’co,  senore’  ” — and  his 
Castilian  has  not  the  purity  of  that  of  Bogota.  Yet  his  gaiety  is  only 
comparative.  There  is  an  innate  gloominess  and  passive  pessimism 
everywhere  in  South  American  society  that  cannot  but  strike  the 
visitor  who  comes  direct  from  more  favored  lands.  The  morose  Indian 
of  the  uplands  forms  a scarcely  noticeable  part  of  the  population  of 
Lima.  On  those  rare  occasions  when  he  comes  down,  or  more  often  is 
brought  as  a conscript  to  serve  his  time  as  soldier  in  the  capital,  he 
often  falls  quick  victim  to  the  white  plague,  which  finds  easy  breed- 
ing-place in  the  disused  cells  of  his  overdeveloped  lungs,  built  for  the 
scant,  thin  air  of  the  Sierra.  The  cholo  or  mestizo,  commonly  of  a 
lesser  percentage  of  aboriginal  than  of  Spanish  blood,  makes  up  the 
bulk  of  the  population.  Then  there  is  the  sambo,  bred  of  the  inter- 
mingling of  the  Indian  and  negro,  a robust,  stubborn,  and  revengeful 
fellow.  Merchants  from  all  the  varying  nationalities  of  Europe  keep 
shop  side  by  side,  with  an  intermingling  of  “ Turks  ” and  even  more 

325 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


distant  races,  and  American  engineers  stride  through  the  streets  at 
all  hours  of  the  day.  Yet  Lima  is  essentially  a Spanish-American 
city,  for  all  that;  where  the  pallid,  waxy  complexion  of  the  gente 
decente  is  much  in  evidence.  The  women  of  this  caste  are  often  beau- 
tiful; so,  for  that  matter,  are  the  men.  In  a population  that  may 
almost  be  termed  cosmopolitan,  the  Chinaman  holds  a considerable 
place.  After  the  abolition  of  slavery  in  1855,  large  numbers  of 
coolies  were  imported  for  the  plantations  of  the  Peruvian  coast,  and 
Celestials  of  higher  caste  have  since  taken  advantage  of  Peru’s  open- 
door  policy  and  the  Japanese  steamship  lines.  So  that  to-day  there 
are  temples  and  joss-houses  and  opium  dens  in  Lima,  and  men  in 
“ European  ” dress,  who  are  not  Europeans,  lean  in  the  doorways  of 
old  colonial  mansions  transformed  into  Oriental  shops.  The  Chinese 
of  Lima  occupy  a wider  field  of  activity  than  almost  anywhere  else 
in  the  Western  hemisphere.  Not  only  is  a large  percentage  of  the 
retail  and  restaurant  business  In  their  hands,  but  scores  of  herbolarios, 
“ herbists,”  we  might  say,  have  stretched  their  signs  across  the  old- 
time  facades  and  blinded  miradores  of  what  were  in  viceregal  days 
the  residences  of  haughty  families.  Only  the  old  men  still  cling  to  the 
national  dress,  and  the  pigtail  has  entirely  disappeared.  Here,  too, 
the  Chinaman  sinks  to  depths  not  familiar  to  us  of  the  north,  and  not 
only  does  the  race  furnish  many  of  the  street-sweepers  of  the  capital, 
but  it  is  no  rare  sight  to  see  an  oval-eyed  personification  of  poverty 
hobbling  along  the  main  thoroughfares  “ shooting  snipes  ” in  the  gut- 
ters. 

The  “ masses  ” of  Lima  dwell  in  vecindades,  which  are  none  the 
less  tenements  for  being  packed  together  on  the  ground  floor  along 
either  side  of  narrow  callejones,  blind  alleys  in  which  all  the  ac- 
tivities of  the  household  from  baby’s  bath  to  the  worship  of  a tin 
Virgin  intermingle,  instead  of  being  piled  one  above  the  other.  The 
better  houses  are  spacious  and  airy  within,  though  outwardly  mo- 
notonous, built  of  mud  and  cane  and  plaster,  their  faqades  here  re- 
sembling marble  at  a distance,  there  painted  pale  blue,  or  pink,  or 
yellow.  In  the  mud-and-bamboo  Cathedral,  the  most  imposing  in 
appearance  in  Spanish  America,  the  mummified  skeleton  of  Pizarro, 
the  jaws  wired  like  those  of  some  prehistoric  creature  in  a museum, 
is  made  a peep-show,  after  the  crude  Spanish  fashion.  The  “ Cine  ” 
has  all  but  driven  out  the  theater  and  whatever  of  national  or  racial 
the  latter  brought  with  it.  The  visitor  who  knows  no  Spanish  could 
easily  guess  the  business  of  a shop  announcing  itself  a “ Plomeria  y 

326 


ROUND  ABOUT  THE  PERUVIAN  CAPITAL 


Gasfiteria.”  The  Lima  barber,  calling  his  establishment  a “ Peluqueria 
y Perfumeria,”  leaves  no  doubt  as  to  what  effeminate  fate  may  befall 
one  who  ventures  into  his  den. 

This  mid-winter  season  of  July  and  August,  they  say,  is  no  time  to 
see  Lima  at  its  best.  The  traveler  who  has  been  a thousand  times 
assured  that  rain  never  falls  on  the  coast  of  Peru  will  be  astonished 
to  find  the  streets  often  slimy  and  soaking  wet  with  garua,  the  Scotch 
mist  that  turns  everything  clammy  and  chill,  yet  never  reaches  the  point 
where  the  shops  find  it  worth  while  to  include  umbrellas  among  their 
stock.  For  days,  and  even  weeks,  the  sun  is  invisible,  and  the  capital 
lies  heavy  under  leaden  skies  and  a muggy  blanket  of  mist,  cold,  dank, 
and  gloomy.  That  is  a rare  day  in  this  season  when  a brilliant  sun 
makes  it  worth  while  to  climb  San  Cristobal  hill,  a bare,  peaked,  rock- 
and-shale  pyramid  rising  close  above  Lima  on  the  north,  from  which 
he  who  has  chosen  his  time  well  may  catch  a view  not  only  of  Callao 
and  its  island  framed  by  the  intense  blue  of  the  Pacific,  but  of  the  snow- 
clads  of  the  Sierra.  The  city  with  its  160,000  inhabitants  lies  flat  in 
its  arid  setting,  the  disk  of  the  bull-ring  in  the  foreground,  an  irregu- 
lar triangle  with  its  base  resting  on  the  babbling  Rimac,  without  chim- 
neys, almost  without  smoke-stacks ; for  its  industries  are  still  chiefly 
confined  to  handicraft.  The  red  tiles  that  give  the  prevailing  color  to 
the  cities  of  the  Andes  are  here  unknown.  The  roofs,  made  of  sticks 
and  mud,  are  flat,  like  those  of  Palestine,  and  are  the  family  prome- 
nades and  garbage-grounds,  and  the  abode  of  smaller  live  stock,  espe- 
cially of  roosters,  whose  raucous  saluting  of  each  new  day  is  not  to  be 
escaped  by  the  most  fortunate  resident.  Cock-fighting  is  still  the  most 
popular  sport  of  the  cholo  classes.  It  is  impossible  to  appear  in  public 
without  being  pestered  by  a constant  procession  of  suerteros  — offering 
snerte,  or  luck  — vendors  of  lottery-tickets  who  fill  the  streets  with 
their  bawling  from  morning  — late  morning,  for  Lima  is  no  early 
riser  — to  midnight. 

For  all  its  modern  aspect,  Lima  is  still  Latin-American  in  tempera- 
ment. Dawn  brings  to  light  personal  habits  little  less  reprehensible 
than  those  of  Quito.  A package  of  films  mailed  from  the  United 
States  cost  me  two  days  of  red-tape  at  the  post-office,  and  the  charges 
exceeded  the  original  cost.  A dozen  bags  of  mail  from  the  north  were 
lost  in  Callao  harbor  through  the  inexcusable  carelessness  of  the  barge- 
men ; the  government  refused  to  make  reparation  to  the  addressees  on 
the  ground  that  the  law  relieved  it  of  responsibility  for  “ unavoidable 
losses  by  shipwreck ! ” An  abortive  revolution  enlivened  the  last  days 

327 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


of  July.  Strolling  into  the  plaza  one  evening,  I was  jostled  by  a group 
of  youthful  roughs  firing  revolvers  into  the  air  as  they  went.  That 
night  the  mob  assaulted  the  home  of  a former  president,  with  casuali- 
ties  of  three  killed  and  a dozen  wounded,  and  the  executive  of  a year 
before  was  lodged  in  a cell  at  the  penitentiary.  Yet  the  films  at  a 
“ Cine  ” a block  away  ran  on  without  a tremor,  and  but  for  the  fact 
that  the  shops  took  down  their  shutters  somewhat  later  than  usual, 
there  was  nothing  left  next  morning  to  recall  the  occurrence.  A few 
days  later  the  principal  newspaper  announced  solemnly  that  the  ex- 
president had  gone  to  Panama  “ for  motives  of  health.” 

The  national  museum  was  officially  open,  though  unofficially  closed, 
on  the  day  of  my  visit.  But  the  experienced  traveler  can  always 
win  his  point  with  the  doorkeeper  of  a South  American  institution, 
and  I was  soon  treading  the  resounding  halls  between  lines  of  a dead 
world’s  relics.  Mummies  from  prehistoric  days,  their  knees  drawn 
up  to  their  chins,  a look  half  of  disgust,  half  of  pain  on  their  osseous 
features,  squatted  along  a wall.  Some  were  still  covered  with  many- 
colored  wrappings,  enclosing  in  clumsy  bundles  not  merely  their  bodies, 
but  all  their  possessions,  their  protruding  heads  still  in  fantastic  masks 
and  wigs,  just  as  they  had  been  found  in  the  burial  caves  of  the 
Sierra.  Others,  reputed  Incas,  were  contained  in  huge  bales  in  which 
they  stood  erect,  as  befitted  their  high  caste,  their  heads  unmasked,  the 
whole  covered  with  a well-preserved  linen-like  cloth.  The  floor  of 
one  large  room  was  completely  covered  with  hundreds  of  skulls  in 
careful  rows.  Some  showed  prehistoric  trepanning,  irregular  holes 
sawed  out  of  them,  and  the  subsequent  growth  of  the  bone  proving 
that  the  warrior  had  lived  long  after  his  overthrow  in  battle.  A 
drowsy  cholo  was  breaking  up  skeletons  and  clawing  earth  out  of 
skulls  with  the  expressionless  placidity  with  which  he  might  have 
sorted  potatoes. 

The  director  deigned  to  show  me  in  person  through  the  gallery  of 
paintings.  We  paused  first  before  an  immense  canvas  depicting  the 
funeral  of  Atahuallpa. 

“ A modern  work  ? ” I remarked,  merely  to  make  conversation. 

“ No,  no,  senor,”  replied  the  director  vehemently,  “ that  is  antigua. 
It  was  painted  nearly  forty  years  ago.” 

“ The  fat  priest  is  Valverde,  I suppose,  and  this  man  with  a beard 
must  be  Pizarro?  ” 

“ Just  so,  senor,  and  the  man  behind  is  Pizarro’s  brother,  Almagro.” 

“His  brother?” 


328 


The  semi-weekly  lottery  drawing  in  the  main  plaza  of  Lima.  Two  of  the  men  who  turn  the 
hollow  spheres  are  blind,  and  the  boys  who  thrust  in  a hand  to  draw  out  a number  are 
supposedly  below  the  age  of  corruption 


All  aboard  1 A Sunday  excursion  that  was  not  posed,  but  was  snapped  just  as  it  came  along 
the  road  near  Pachacamac  on  the  Peruvian  coast 


■■ 


ROUND  ABOUT  THE  PERUVIAN  CAPITAL 


But  the  director  persisted  in  the  unhistorical  relationship,  in  which 
he  was  confirmed  by  an  assistant,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  the  figure  in 
question  represented  a man  some  fifteen  years  younger  than  the  chief 
Conquistador. 

“ Why  is  the  back  of  Almagro’s  head  missing?” 

“ Ah,  senor,”  sighed  the  director,  with  a shrug  of  the  shoulders, 
“What  would  you?  The  Chilians  cut  out  this  picture  and  carried  it 
home.  It  used  to  be  several  feet  longer,  and  there  were  many  other 
Caballeros  in  the  group.” 

Among  whom  was  the  real  Almagro,  no  doubt.  I made  the  circuit 
of  the  gallery,  then  turned  an  inquiring  eye  on  my  companion. 

“ Ah  — er  — you  are  looking  for  the  picture  that  used  to  be  here  ? ” 
he  stammered,  quick  to  catch  my  expression. 

“Yes,  the  famous  portrait  of  Pizarro.” 

“ Well,  it  used  to  hang  right  here,”  said  the  director,  pointing  to  a 
blank  space  on  the  wall,  as  at  some  object  of  extraordinary  interest. 
“ But  a few  weeks  ago  the  Senor  Presidente  de  la  Republica  sent  for 
it,  because  he  wants  it  in  his  own  house.” 

On  my  return  I dropped  in  at  the  University  of  San  Marcos,  oldest 
in  America  and  antedating  our  most  ancient  by  nearly  a century.  It 
was  pitifully  like  other  Latin-American  schools.  The  rector,  having 
led  me  through  a dozen  empty  school-rooms  grouped  about  several 
patios,  and  having  given  the  history  in  detail  of  a collection  of  silver 
cups  “ graciously  awarded  the  University  ” by  the  king  of  this  and  the 
emperor  of  that,  expressed  unbounded  surprise  that  I should  wish  to 
see  a class  at  work.  When  it  became  evident  that  he  could  not  shake 
me  off  with  babbling  courtesies,  he  pointed  out  the  door  of  a class  in  law 
and  disappeared,  as  if  he  would  not  have  it  known  who  was  responsi- 
ble for  the  unusual  intrusion.  Some  twenty-five  young  men,  not  so 
young  either,  being  almost  all  adorned  with  mustaches,  were  lounging 
on  benches  of  the  amphitheater.  The  professor,  comfortably  seated 
in  a sort  of  pulpit,  was  reading  in  a languid  and  utterly  dispassionate 
voice  — not  a lecture  he  had  himself  prepared,  but  from  a book  pur- 
chasable at  a dollar  or  two,  nnd  readable,  I trust,  by  the  students 
themselves.  Meanwhile  the  students  napped,  wrote  letters,  exchanged 
jokes,  and  discussed  with  their  neighbors  the  extraordinary  advent  of 
a stranger  in  their  midst.  No  doubt  they  had  some  other  means  and 
place  of  acquiring  the  knowledge  indispensable  even  to  a South  Amer- 
ican lawyer;  but  what  they  gained  by  attending  classes  was  hard  to 
guess.  I had  been  the  object  of  curiosity  for  some  time  before  the 

329 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


professor  caught  sight  of  me.  He  left  off  reading  at  once,  and  sparred 
for  time  with  a string  of  stale  pedagogical  jokes  until  I saw  fit  to  re- 
move my  annoying  presence.  Other  class-rooms  demonstrated  that 
famous  old  San  Marcos  is  still  in  the  world  of  long  ago,  its  methods 
of  instruction  as  antiquated  as  its  text-books,  heritages  of  a Jesuitical 
past,  unavoidably  so  because  of  the  rarity  of  Spanish  translations  of 
modern  works. 

During  all  July  my  ambition  remained  at  a low  ebb,  and  my  most 
extended  acquaintance  was  with  the  medical  profession.  “Yu  Sui, 
Herbolario  de  Pekin,  physician  extraordinary  to  his  Excellency,  the 
Chinese  Minister,”  assured  me  I had  dysentery,  but  no  fever,  and  con- 
cocted the  daily  bottle  of  herbs  accordingly.  The  chief  Italian  spe- 
cialist based  his  treatment  on  the  fact  that  I had  fever,  but  no  dysentery. 
Fortunately  Lima  has  not  yet  been  invaded  by  that  sect  that  would 
have  robbed  me  of  the  gloomy  pleasure  of  having  anything.  Every 
gringo  who  had  ever  ventured  a hundred  miles  into  the  interior  had  his 
own  individual  “ sure  cure  ” ; and  I had  reached  the  point  where  I 
would  have  worn  a tin  charm  about  my  neck,  had  anyone  asserted  it 
efficacious.  Yet  when  once  I had  discovered  a real  physician,  Anglo- 
Saxon  in  blood  and  of  tropical  experience,  the  remedy  — intermus- 
cular injections  of  emmetine  — was  quickly  effective. 

A no  less  potent  factor  in  the  recovery,  however,  was  the  hospitality 
of  mine  own  people  in  Bellavista  (“  Beyabi’ta,”  locally)  on  the  out- 
skirts of  Callao.  Genuine  electric-cars  sped  across  the  cool,  flat  coun- 
try in  a brief  half-hour,  from  the  capital  to  the  edge  of  the  Pacific  I 
had  not  seen  since  landing  in  Cartagena  thirteen  months  before.  Here 
it  was  often  brilliant  summer,  and  from  the  housetop  promenade 
spread  out  all  Callao  harbor,  jutting  La  Punta,  and  the  island  of  San 
Lorenzo  in  their  intense  blue  setting,  and  perhaps  even  the  snow-white 
line  of  the  Sierra,  while  over  the  capital,  a bare  eight  miles  away,  hung 
the  opaque,  mid-winter  blanket  of  haze  and  gloom.  The  beach  was 
near  at  hand,  the  sea-breeze  constant,  and  the  soporific  roar  of  the  surf 
never  silent.  The  landscape,  flat  and  arid,  had  a charm  of  its  own, 
and  a network  of  mud  fences,  on  the  broad  tops  of  which  one  might 
promenade  for  miles. 

One  Sunday  during  convalescence  I visited  ancient  Pachacamac. 
Swift  interurban  cars  bore  us  through  morning-misty  Miraflores  and 
Barranco  to  Chorillos,  proudest  watering-place  of  the  rainless  Peru- 
vian coast,  where  we  mounted  horses  and  rode  away  into  the  desert  by 
a broad  trail  that  paralleled  the  shore  within  hearing  of  the  dull  roll 

330 


ROUND  ABOUT  THE  PERUVIAN  CAPITAL 


of  the  surf.  It  was  a yeritable  Sahara,  in  which  the  sand,  everywhere 
ankle-deep,  lay  in  wind-blown  ridges.  The  horizon  rose  before  us 
as  at  sea,  and  the  mirage  of  heat-waves  seemed  rivers  flowing  land- 
ward. The  uncorrected  imagination  is  wont  to  picture  the  coast  of 
Peru  as  utterly  flat,  as  well  as  sandy.  It  is  so  only  in  part.  Hills  of 
sand  that  were  almost  mountains  stretched  down  to  the  sea,  like  but- 
tresses fashioned  to  support  the  mammoth  wall  of  the  Andes  that 
bounded  the  horizon  on  the  left.  The  summits  of  many  were  hidden 
in  mists,  the  garua  from  which  had  given  life  to  the  brilliant  green 
lomas  and  patches  where  flocks  feed  in  certain  seasons ; and  the  smil- 
ing valley  of  Lurin,  watered  by  a stream  smaller  than  the  Rimac  and 
still  cold  from  the  snows  above,  was  as  inviting  in  its  contrast  to  the 
repulsive,  naked  hills  as  any  desert  oasis.  Down  on  the  floor  of  the 
valley  this,  too,  seemed  sandy  and  dry,  but  the  acequias  that  still  water 
it,  as  in  the  days  of  the  Incas,  sustain  a wilderness  of  scrubby  trees, 
among  which  a chiefly  negro  population  lolls  in  open-work  huts.  Na- 
ture seems  to  have  arranged  her  seasons  with  foresight  here ; for 
when  the  garua  gives  way  to  blazing  summer,  the  rainy  season  and  the 
melting  snows  above  swell  the  rivers  to  a volume  that  affords  wide- 
spread irrigation. 

Pachacamac,  the  Animator  of  the  Universe,  not  to  be  confused  with 
the  Sun-god  of  the  Incas,  had  his  temple  on  the  edge  of  this  forbidding 
waste  of  sand,  overlooking  the  sea  that  chafes  incessantly  at  its  feet. 
It  was  the  Benares  of  the  ancient  Peruvians,  not  merely  because  it 
drew  pilgrims  from  all  the  surrounding  world,  but  because  here  those 
who  could  brought  and  disposed  of  their  dead.  Conquered  by  the 
Incas  nearly  two  centuries  before  the  coming  of  the  Spaniards,  a 
Temple  of  the  Sun  was  added;  but  the  sun-worshippers,  like  their 
conquerors  in  turn,  were  too  politic  to  suppress  the  earlier  religion  en- 
tirely, and  merely  merged  it  with  their  own.  “ In  a room  closely  shut 
and  stinking,”  says  Estete,  the  Spanish  chronicler,  “ was  an  idol  made 
of  wood,  very  dirty,  which  they  called  god,  who  creates  and  sustains 
us.  It  was  held  in  great  veneration  and  at  its  feet  were  offerings.” 
Different,  indeed,  from  many  an  Andean  place  of  worship  to-day! 
It  is  a place  of  death  in  a double  sense.  Scuttling  lizards  and  sand- 
vipers  are  the  only  forms  of  life  that  accentuate  its  silent,  repulsive 
sterility.  Human  skulls  kick  about  underfoot  through  all  the  extent 
of  the  ruins,  and  disintegrated  skeletons  lie  everywhere.  Only  the 
earthen  pots  and  hucicos  are  of  financial  value  to  the  looters;  the  heads 
of  the  men  who  made  them  are  not  worth  the  gathering.  The  ruins 

331 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


are  extensive,  a few  of  the  great  terraced  temples  still  moderately  well 
preserved.  But  being  of  clay  or  adobe,  dreary,  yellow-brown,  they 
offer  no  contrast  in  color  to  the  surrounding  desert  hills,  and  nothing 
to  compare  with  the  splendid  wrought-stone  monuments  of  those 
wonderful  architects,  the  ancient  Peruvians  of  the  highlands. 

The  year  had  run  over  into  September  before  I turned  my  face 
upward  again  toward  the  Sierra,  to  pick  up  the  broken  thread  of  my 
journey.  Beyond  Chosica  the  naked  hills  closed  in,  and  the  train 
climbed  all  day  between  barren,  echoing  walls  of  rock,  the  exhilarat- 
ing mountain  air  cutting  ever  deeper  into  my  lungs,  as  the  glorious 
Italian  skies  of  the  cloudless  upper  plateau  spread  their  ever-broad- 
ening canopy  above.  Snow  appeared  on  far-off  peaks,  descended  to 
meet  us,  and  spread  in  patches  about  and  below  us.  As  the  air  thinned, 
our  faces  flushed  and  tingled ; a tendency  to  sleepiness  was  succeeded 
by  a feeling  of  exhilaration  and  an  inclination  to  grow  talkative.  My 
fellow-passengers  began  to  show  signs  of  distress  at  the  altitude, 
growing  more  and  more  red-faced,  with  bloodshot  eyes;  then  one  by 
one  they  frankly  succumbed  to  mountain  sickness  as  the  train  con- 
tinued inexorably  upward.  As  the  experienced  sailor  struts  about 
among  his  seasick  fellows,  so  I caught  myself  gazing  with  haughty 
scorn  upon  the  weaklings  about  me.  Obviously  a man  who  had 
tramped  the  lofty  paramos  from  far-off  Bogota,  often  under  a heavy 
pack,  was  immune  to  any  effects  of  altitude. 

But  there  is  imbedded  in  ancient  literature  something  to  the  effect 
that  pride  is  often  closely  attended  by  a downfall.  At  Ticlio,  in  the 
crisp,  cold  afternoon,  I noted  that  the  mere  exertion  of  lifting  my  bag- 
gage from  the  main  to  the  branch-line  train  set  my  heart  in  a strange 
flutter.  A more  cautious  person,  too,  would  not  have  drunk  three 
cups  of  black  coffee  in  the  miserable  little  station  lunch-room  so 
soon  after  weeks  of  rigid  diet.  Laboriously  we  climbed  to  the  highest 
railroad  point  in  the  world,  flanked  by  an  immense  blue  glacier,  up 
again  on  the  bare,  treeless,  silent  pampas,  among  cobble-stone  hovels 
and  ichu,  the  stolid,  expressionless  Indians  of  the  highlands,  and  drew 
up  at  dusk  in  Morococha.  The  cheerless  mining-camp,  more  than 
three  miles  above  the  sea,  lay  scattered  along  a dreary,  bowl-shaped 
valley,  with  a vista  of  three  cold,  steel-blue  lagoons,  across  which  the 
enclosing  snowclads  threw  their  violet  evening  shadows.  In  this 
breathless  region  my  pulse  started  savagely  at  every  exertion,  but  being 
already  arrived,  I supposed  myself  as  safe  from  mountain  sickness  as 
a disembarking  passenger  from  mal  de  mer.  In  the  manager’s  cozy, 

332 


ROUND  ABOUT  THE  PERUVIAN  CAPITAL 


stone-walled  quarters  the  blazing  fireplace,  with  its  unaccustomed  arti- 
ficial heat  and  its  clouds  of  tobacco-smoke,  threatened  suffocation 
and  forced  me  to  step  out  frequently  into  the  crisp,  night  air  to  catch 
my  breath.  But  no  Indian  of  the  highland  could  have  boasted  him- 
self in  finer  physical  spirits  when  we  wandered  away  toward  ten,  pant- 
ing considerably,  to  be  sure,  even  at  a very  moderate  pace,  up  the 
slope  to  the  superintendent’s  dwelling. 

Barely  had  I turned  in,  however,  when  I began  gasping  for  breath. 
Within  an  hour  my  host  found  that  I had  a respiration  of  52  and  a 
pulse  of  125.  All  night  long  I struggled  open-mouthed,  with  the 
sound  of  an  accelerated  steam-pump  in  bad  repair,  my  heart  engaged 
in  what  promised  to  be  a successful  attempt  to  pound  its  way  out 
through  my  back,  until  my  very  shoulderblades  ached,  and  all  the 
valley  of  Morococha  seemed  to  echo  with  its  thumping.  It  was  too 
much!  To  be  scarcely  recovered  from  one  long,  laborious,  Andean 
ailment,  only  to  blow  up  of  my  own  steam  in  this  absurd  land ! 

In  the  morning  the  mine-doctor  came  with  his  stethescope,  mumbled 
“ soroche  ” in  a weary,  unsympathetic  voice,  left  some  pills  and  in- 
structions, and  was  gone.  All  day  long  I lay  fasting,  the  snowclads 
gazing  down  upon  me  with  icy,  Andean  indifference.  Gradually  the 
pounding  of  my  heart  ceased  to  drown  out  all  other  sounds,  and  my 
lungs  resumed  their  accustomed  action.  On  the  following  morning, 
though  still  weak  and  wobbly-legged,  aching  from  crown  to  toe,  I was 
able  to  be  about,  the  day  after,  I strode  slowly  about  the  camp  with 
something  of  the  oldtime  vigor.  In  the  end  the  experience  seemed  to 
be  advantageous,  for  with  every  day  thereafter  I advanced  to  a fault- 
less physical  condition  that  was  to  accompany  me  on  all  the  rest  of  the 
journey. 

There  are  a score  of  theories  concerning  this  mountain-sickness, 
known  throughout  Peru  by  the  Quichua  word  soroche  and  in  the 
basin  of  the  Titicaca  as  puna.  Who  may  be  subject  to  it,  what  will 
prevent  it,  whether  or  not  previous  experience  will  or  will  not  give 
immunity,  are  even  greater  mysteries  than  those  surrounding  its  proto- 
type, the  bugbear  of  ocean  travel.  No  two  persons  are  ever  affected 
alike  by  it.  Commonly  it  is  accompanied  by  a raging  headache.  All 
foreigners  contracted  for  mine  employment  in  this  region  are  sub- 
jected to  a rigid  physical  examination  before  they  ascend  “ the  Hill,” 
yet  it  is  not  unusual  to  make  up  a special  train  and  rush  a victim  down 
to  the  coast.  Among  horses,  with  which  it  takes  the  form  of  blind- 
staggers  and  often  renders  the  animal  unfit  for  further  service,  it  is 

333 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


known  as  veta,  from  the  aboriginal  superstition  that  it  is  caused  by 
veins  of  ore  (vetas)  in  the  earth. 

Morococha,  like  its  rival,  Cerro  de  Pasco,  is  a little  world  of  its 
own,  exclusively  mining  in  its  raison  d’etre  and  considerably  marked 
by  Anglo-Saxon  influence.  Though  many  of  the  natives  still  hud- 
dle in  dismal  huts,  without  windows  and  with  dirt  floors,  the  civilizing 
effect  of  the  gringo  is  in  some  evidence,  at  least  in  those  superficial 
matters  of  small  habits,  amusements,  and  clothing.  American  hob- 
nailed boots  are  almost  as  frequently  worn  by  the  Indian  men  as  the 
llanqui,  or  hairy  cowhide  sandal.  Bitter  cold  though  it  is,  even  at 
noonday,  the  Indians  of  female  persuasion  go  scantily  clad  and  almost 
universally  barefoot. 

The  miners  work  nine  hours  a day,  seven  days  a week,  and  re- 
ceive an  average  of  something  more  than  a dollar  a day  — a high 
wage  from  the  Andean  Indian  point  of  view.  The  considerable  effi- 
ciency of  both  Indian  and  cholo  workmen  is  curtailed  by  much  coca- 
chewing and  hard  drinking.  Following  each  pay-day,  and  during  the 
many  fiestas,  a majority  of  the  native  miners  go  on  an  extended  de- 
bauch, leaving  the  mines  often  so  short-handed  that  operations  vir- 
tually cease.  The  effect  of  the  celebration  does  not  wear  off  for 
several  days,  so  that  enterprise  is  commonly  paralyzed  a week  or  more 
in  every  month.  The  company  is  powerless  to  remedy  this  drawback, 
and  the  government  — that  scapegoat  of  all  imperfections  throughout 
South  America  — shows  no  disposition  to  better  conditions,  even  were 
it  possible.  An  Indian  injured  in  the  mine  is  more  apt  to  run  away 
than  to  report  at  the  hospital,  and  to  appear  later  as  a litigant  against 
the  company,  demanding  — and  with  government  aid  frequently  win- 
ning— a sinecure  for  life.  Even  when  the  injured  man  is  attended 
by  the  mine-doctor,  and  his  broken  leg  bound  with  splints  or  his 
wound  properly  treated  with  antiseptic  care,  he  is  likely  to  be  found 
next  morning  with  the  bandages  torn  off,  and  with  coca  leaves,  or  a 
chicken  leg,  or  something  as  efficacious  substituted. 

It  must  be  admitted  that  his  gringo  superiors  do  not  set  the  native 
miner  a perfect  example  in  his  chief  vice,  the  excessive  consumption 
of  alcohol.  In  the  social  vacuum  that  must  necessarily  exist  in  such 
a community,  drinking  and  gambling  are  the  favorite  methods  of 
putting  to  rout  dull  care.  The  altitude  soon  gets  on  the  nerves,  seem- 
ing to  call  for  some  such  stimulant ; at  least,  it  is  the  custom  to  “ lay 
to  the  altitude  ” any  species  of  misdemeanor,  or  the  formation  of 
habits  unknown  to  the  subject  before  his  arrival.  Somehow  it  strikes 

334 


ROUND  ABOUT  THE  PERUVIAN  CAPITAL 


the  passing  observer  as  wicked  to  send  these  small-lunged,  sea-level 
men  of  other  climes  up  here  to  gasp  through  life  at  a height  fitted 
only  to  the  barrel-chested  Indian  and  his  fellow-beast  of  burden,  the 
llama.  Both  physically  and  temperamentally  the  effect  of  the  alti- 
tude is  curious.  Water  boils  at  so  low  a temperature  that  a finger 
can  almost  be  thrust  into  it  with  impunity.  Fireplaces  are  set  in  ac- 
tion by  nonchalantly  throwing  two  or  three  beer-bottlesful  of  kerosene 
into  the  blaze.  Those  accustomed  to  the  heights  for  generations  are 
far  sturdier  and  less  vivacious  than  those  of  lower  levels.  New- 
comers, on  the  other  hand,  are  easily  excited  and  rattle-brained,  dash- 
ing about  like  the  proverbial  “ hen  with  its  head  cut  off,”  futile  in 
proportion  to  their  striving.  In  the  gringo  community  it  is  a stand- 
ing jest  that  the  American  or  Englishman  most  phlegmatic  at  sea-level 
will  spend  an  hour  trying  to  shave,  and  grow  so  hen-minded  over 
that  simple  task  that  he  often  gives  up  in  despair.  The  exhilara- 
tion is  physical  as  well  as  mental.  Baseball  players,  far  from  losing 
their  customary  prowess  in  this  thin  air,  are  given  to  running  their 
legs  off  in  their  excitement,  and  must  often  be  restrained  lest  they  burst 
their  lungs. 

It  is  half-jokingly  asserted  that  after  a few  months  in  the  mines  it 
is  not  safe  to  open  a bottle  or  a “ jack-pot  ” in  the  presence  of  a min- 
ister’s son.  Unfortunately  the  jest  seems  to  have  serious  basis  in 
fact.  The  tighter  the  lines  that  bound  their  youth,  the  more  com- 
pletely do  the  newcomers  cast  them  off  when  removed  from  the  in- 
fluence of  home  ties  and  neighborly  opinion.  Small  wonder  the 
Latin  races  accuse  the  Anglo-Saxon  of  hypocrisy.  The  Americans 
who  live  and  mine  up  and  down  the  Sierra  have  convinced  Peruvians 
that  every  living  American  drinks  quarts  of  whiskey  neat  every  day, 
and  squanders  his  substance  in  gambling,  or  if  luck  runs  his  way,  in 
the  “ stews  ” of  Lima.  This  is  not  to  say  that  all  gringos  in  Morococha 
and  Cerro  de  Pasco  fall  into  an  evil  manner  of  life,  or  that  there  are 
not  many  more  who  perform  their  tasks  fully  and  efficiently,  in  spite 
of  an  occasional  debauch.  Those  who  bring  with  them  very  strong 
wills,  or  some  equivalent  for  them,  retain  the  tautness  of  their  moral 
fiber,  for  all  the  altitude.  The  percentage  of  men  who  go  astray  is 
such,  however,  that  it  becomes  almost  a subject  for  congratulation  to 
see  a well-kept  frame  and  a wholesome,  unlined  face  in  these  Andean 
communities,  where  dissipated  countenances  are  rather  the  rule  than 
the  exception.  Then,  too,  often  arriving  as  youths,  with  little  expe- 
rience of  life  except  the  half-cloistered  one  of  our  colleges,  the  younger 

335 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


seem  to  feel  it  necessary  to  prove  themselves  “ men,”  and  to  keep  up 
the  local  reputation  for  what  a missionary  referred  to  as  “ those  rough 
mining  fellows  ” by  assuming  a bold,  gruff,  even  vulgar  exterior.  All 
question  of  “ morality  ” aside,  the  mere  materialistic  problem  of  keep- 
ing up  the  efficiency  of  their  force  would  seem  to  make  some  curtail- 
ment of  the  prevailing  customs  worth  the  trouble  of  the  mine-owners. 
But  even  those  sent  down  to  assume  charge  too  often  fall  victims  to 
that  false  philosophy  of  “ a short  life  and  a merry  one.” 

Gringo  employees  of  higher  rank  command  generous  salaries  and 
are  well  housed,  with  all  the  comforts  that  can  conveniently  be  trans- 
ported to  this  lofty  region.  Coming,  for  the  most  part,  directly  from 
England  or  the  United  States,  they  take  naturally  to  the  artificial  heat 
which  the  natives  rarely  adopt.  Before  the  fireplace  at  the  club  the 
conversation  jumps  from  “ bridge  ” to  tetrahydrite  ore,  and  back  again 
to  poker  with,  to  the  layman,  a vertiginous  speed,  amid  the  rattle  of 
glasses  and  bottles  and  the  strains  of  a tireless  phonograph.  A con- 
siderable portion  of  the  talk  might  frankly  be  called  gossip;  for 
South  America  has  this  in  common  with  small  towns,  that  every 
gringo  up  and  down  the  continent  knows  every  other,  at  least  by 
hearsay,  his  private  character  and  his  domestic  difficulties. 

The  traveler  through  South  America  is  frequently  struck  by  the 
fact  that  large  enterprises,  even  British  in  ownership,  are  more  often 
than  not  actually  and  practically  in  charge  of  Americans.  The  man- 
ager and  most  of  the  office  force  may  be  English,  but  the  actual  mo- 
tive power,  the  man  who  makes  the  ore  fly  or  sets  the  trains  to  run- 
ning, is  apt  to  be  a youthful  superintendent  or  engineer  but  a few 
years  out  of  one  of  our  technical  colleges.  This  is  no  argument  for 
or  against  the  mentality  or  ability  of  either  nationality.  These  are 
their  natural  spheres  of  action,  purely  the  result  of  environment.  The 
American,  coming  from  a land  where  precedent  is  given  short  shrift, 
and  accustomed  to  furnish  his  own  initiative,  is  best  fitted  for  pushing 
the  pioneer  work,  for  attacking  unprecedented  problems  and  carrying 
the  enterprise  on  to  the  point  where  it  is  established  and  running 
smoothly.  The  Englishman,  product  of  an  older  and  more  settled 
society,  is  more  easily  content  to  continue  an  established  under- 
taking, to  “ stick  on  the  job,”  while  the  American  moves  on  to  attack 
new  and  unfamiliar  problems. 

I visited  the  chief  mines  of  Morococha  with  the  youthful  American 
superintendent.  They  presented  nothing  unusual  to  one  acquainted 
with  those  of  Mexico,  than  which  they  were  slightly  more  crude  and 

336 


The  bleak  mining  town  of  Morococha,  more  than  16,000  feet  above  sea-level.  Though 
but  twelve  degrees  south  of  the  equator,  dawn  often  finds  the  place  completely 
covered  with  snow,  and  ice  forms  on  the  edges  of  the  chain  of  lakes, 
the  outlet  from  which  is  to  the  Amazon 


The  American  miners  of  Morococha  live  in  comfort  for  all  the  altitude  and  bleakness  of 
their  surroundings.  In  spite  of  their  example,  however,  the  natives  still  shiver 
through  the  day  and  huddle  through  the  night  without  artificial  heat 


ROUND  ABOUT  THE  PERUVIAN  CAPITAL 


undeveloped  in  their  methods.  Some  details  of  life  were  different; 
the  peons  wore  plenty  of  clothing,  ragged  and  extremely  bedraggled, 
hats,  and  even  footwear,  for  it  was  little  less  cold  down  in  the  mine 
galleries  than  in  the  crisp,  wintry  mountain  air  and  the  brilliant  yet 
chill  sunshine  that  flooded  the  glacier-draped  valley  and  the  indigo- 
blue  lakes  above.  We  climbed  and  crawled  and  dragged  ourselves  by 
elbows,  knees,  shoulders,  hands  and  feet  through  ancient  and  modern 
“ stopes,”  by  slippery  ladders,  crude  stairways,  or  slimy  ropes,  in  an 
eternal  darkness  made  barely  visible  by  our  torches.  The  Indian 
miners,  some  of  them  but  half-grown  boys,  each  and  all  had  a cheek 
puffed  out  by  a quid  of  coca.  They  took  a half-hour  “ coca-time  ” 
each  afternoon,  as  religiously  as  an  Englishman  does  for  his  tea.  Those 
who  shoveled  away  the  mountain  of  ore  in  the  sunshine  outside  earned 
seventy  cents  a day;  in  the  Natividad  mine,  where  water  poured  in- 
cessantly and  required  oilskins,  the  workmen  nearly  doubled  this  wage. 
The  practical  gringo  miners  of  to-day  had  somewhat  different  views  of 
the  ancient  Peruvian  civilization  than  its  historians,  and  considered 
the  stories  of  Inca  wealth  vastly  exaggerated.  Many  a time,  to  be 
sure,  a vein  that  promised  rich  reward  was  soon  found  to  have  been 
“ stoped  out  ” by  the  Incas  or  colonial  Spaniards ; but  these  neither 
knew  enough  about  effective  mining,  nor  went  deep  enough  to  get  any 
such  quantity  of  gold  as  tradition  ascribes  to  them.  Moreover,  copper 
is  the  chief  ore  of  Peru,  and  even  silver  owes  its  importance  here  al- 
most entirely  to  the  fact  that  the  copper  is  highly  argentiferous. 

Beyond  Oroya  the  railways  of  central  Peru  spread  out  in  a Y,  at 
the  right-hand  end  of  which  is  Huancayo,  something  more  than  two 
hundred  miles  from  Lima,  as  is  Cerro  de  Pasco  on  the  other  branch. 
Some  time  after  the  hour  set,  an  engine  was  found  somewhere  in  or 
about  the  junction,  and  toward  noon  we  drifted  away  down  a gorge 
into  which  portly,  dry  hills  thrust  themselves  alternately  from  either 
side.  Country  women  were  washing  their  clothes  in  the  scanty  river ; 
here  and  there,  at  the  base  of  amphitheatrical  bluffs,  wheat  was  being 
threshed  under  the  hoofs  of  circling  horses.  There  were  several 
dust-blown  stations,  but  no  signs  of  towns,  nor,  indeed,  a patch  on  which 
one  might  have  existed,  except  the  one  mud  village  of  Llocllapampa 
in  mid-afternoon,  familiar  with  its  old  Andean  red-tile  roofs.  In  the 
first-class  car  was  a crowd  almost  exclusively  Peruvian,  huge  scarfs 
and  shawls  about  their  throats,  and  many  in  overcoats ; for  not  only 
had  Americans  in  their  leather  leggings  disappeared,  but  even  the  out- 
ward evidence  of  gringo  influence ; and  I was  once  more  swallowed  up 

337 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


in  the  purely  native  life  of  the  Sierra.  At  length  the  gorge  closed  in, 
squeezed  us  through  three  tunnels,  and  there  opened  out  an  inter- 
andean  valley,  spreading  far  away  north  and  south,  cloud-shadows 
flecking  its  surface,  two  snowclad  peaks  contemplating  us  with  a 
lofty  disdain  from  over  the  crest  of  the  enclosing  wall.  The  train 
turned  crab-wise  toward  the  nearer  end  of  the  valley,  and  set  us  down 
within  walking  distance  of  Jauja. 

The  famous  “ Xauxa  ” of  Prescott  is  rather  colorless  in  its  person- 
ality and  barren  in  its  setting.  The  bells  of  llama  trains,  followed  by 
their  as  soft-footed,  coca-chewing  drivers,  jangled  by  my  window  and 
died  away  down  the  street.  A considerable  proportion  of  the  popula- 
tion was  constantly  struggling  about  the  hydrant  in  the  center  of  the 
plaza ; the  rest  were  either  simple  Indians  with  coca-  and  pisco-brutal- 
ized  faces,  or  the  haughty  keepers  of  glorified  peanut-stands.  Smoke 
there  was  none,  of  course,  neither  of  industry  nor  of  domestic  com- 
fort, and  in  contrast  to  the  bitter  cold  nights  and  the  ice-box  frigidity 
of  every  shade  and  shadow,  the  uncovered  sun  was  burning.  Not 
even  the  murmur  of  open  sewers  broke  the  langorous  Andean  silence, 
and  in  nothing  but  a few  slight  details  was  the  monotony  of  all  towns 
of  the  Sierra  broken.  I was  back  once  more  in  the  kingdom  of 
candles,  with  its  dreary,  interminable,  read-less  evenings. 

The  ancient  Inca  highway  passed  through  “ Sausa,”  on  the  heights 
above  the  present  town,  the  beginnings  of  which  Pizarro  laid  on  his 
way  to  Cuzco.  The  ruins  were  far  more  easily  accessible  than  those 
of  Huamachuco,  and  neither  so  important  nor  so  throttled  with  vege- 
tation. The  surviving  walls  are  chiefly  of  broken  stone,  some  of  lines 
of  square,  some  of  round,  rooms.  The  chief  ruins  appeared  to  have 
been  a double  line  of  fortresses,  which  hung  on  the  brow  of  the  hill 
with  a truly  Incaic  view  over  the  surrounding  world.  Strictly  speak- 
ing, these  were  not  Inca  monuments,  but  constructions  of  the  Huancas, 
improved  by  the  Emperors  of  Cuzco.  The  tribe  that  once  inhabited 
this  broad  valley  were  conquered  by  the  militant  Incas,  and  forced  to 
give  tribute  and  adopt  the  tongue  of  their  conquerors,  a dialect  of 
which  still  persists  in  the  region.  The  plain  was  once  a lake-bottom, 
stretching  from  beyond  Jauja  to  distant  Huancayo.  An  hour’s  walk 
from  the  town  still  brings  one  to  a cool  and  placid  lagoon,  surrounded 
by  all  but  impenetrable  marshes  and  reeds,  with  numerous  wild  ducks 
winging  their  V-shaped  course  across  it.  To-day  the  Mantaro  river, 
like  an  unravelled  cord,  swings  southward  past  a few  pueblocitos, 

338 


ROUND  ABOUT  THE  PERUVIAN  CAPITAL 

among  green  groves  that  give  relieving  touches  of  color  to  a scene  at 
best  bald  and  barren  in  aspect. 

Long  before  train-time  most  of  the  population  of  Jauja,  having  no 
better  means  of  whiling  away  the  afternoon,  wandered  out  along  the 
dusty  road  to  the  station,  isolated  as  some  house  of  pestilence.  That 
American  habit  of  racing  breathlessly  across  the  platform  at  the  last 
moment  is  not  prevalent  in  Peru.  For  one  thing,  the  bulcteria  ceases 
to  “ function  ” long  before  the  scheduled  hour  of  departure,  and  he 
who  embarks  without  a ticket  subjects  himself  to  a fifty  percent,  in- 
crease in  fare  — unless  he  has  the  fortune  to  be  a compadre  of  some 
member  of  the  train-crew.  In  the  second-class  coach  the  travelers 
ranged  from  broad-faced  Indians  to  cholos  in  “ civilized  ” garb  and 
rubber  collars,  the  corresponding  females  wrapped  from  head  to  foot 
in  crow-black  mantos.  With  the  human  deluge  came  corpulently 
stuffed  alforjas,  crude  implements  of  husbandry,  distorted  bundles  of 
household  effects,  and,  on  the  backs  of  the  Indian  women,  bulky  in 
their  heavy  skirts  unevenly  gathered  about  their  draught-horse  hips, 
loads  of  varying  size  from  which,  with  few  exceptions,  peered  the  face 
of  a wide-eyed  baby.  All  these  — the  infants  only  excepted  — my 
fellow-passengers  proceeded  to  stuff  under  the  four  lengthwise 
benches,  into  the  racks  above,  or  to  hang  from  the  roof  supports,  until 
the  car  took  on  the  aspect  of  an  overstocked  pawnshop  in  which  a 
multitude  of  tenement  dwellers  had  taken  sudden  refuge. 

Above  the  door  was  the  information,  “96  asientos,”  all  of  which 
were  all  more  than  fully  occupied  when  the  engineer  embraced  the 
station-master  for  the  last  time  and  the  massed  population  of  Jauja 
began  to  recede  into  the  distance.  Within  the  car  the  prevailing 
tongue  was  Quichua.  The  native  conductor  “ grafted  ” with  a fetch- 
ing frankness  here  and  there  in  his  struggle  through  the  welter  of  hu- 
manity; the  brakemen  spent  most  of  the  journey  drinking  the  health 
of  a group  of  cholos  in  a corner  of  the  coach.  Chicha  flowed  like 
water.  At  every  station  old  women  crowded  through  the  car  selling 
that  nectar  of  the  Incas,  all  purchasers  drinking  from  the  same  cup, 
and  generally  several  from  the  same  filling,  while  the  scrawny  hags, 
waiting  for  its  return,  idly  rubbed  their  bony  talons  about  the  spout 
of  the  cantaro  under  their  arms.  Almost  every  traveler  had  his  own 
supply  of  a more  potent  native  beverage.  The  pisco  bottle  with  its 
licorish  smell  passed  constantly  from  hand  to  hand,  eyes  grew  more 
and  more  bloodshot,  tongues  thicker,  yet  more  talkative  — for  the 

339 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


Andean  Indian  is  taciturn  in  exact  proportion  to  his  sobriety  — eye- 
lids heavy,  and  limbs  clumsy.  The  tippling  knew  no  limits  either  of 
sex  or  age.  Infants  barely  two  years  old  frequently  took  a long  drink 
at  the  fiery  bottle,  and  cooed  with  delight  at  the  taste.  The  railway 
company  not  only  permitted,  but  abetted  Peru’s  national  vice.  If 
the  universal  pastime  threatened  to  flag  for  a moment,  it  was  resusci- 
tated by  the  fifty-year  old  dwarf  of  a trainboy,  who  waded  incessantly 
through  our  legs  with  a bottle  under  each  arm  and  a single  opaque  glass 
in  hand,  urging  all,  from  the  aged  Indian  dreaming  over  the  cud  of 
coca  in  his  cheek  to  the  best-dressed  chola,  to  drink  and  be  merry, 
for  to-morrow  — he  would  be  bound  in  the  other  direction. 

Not  a few  of  the  Indian  and  cholo  girls  were  robustly  pretty,  their 
cheeks  rosy  in  spite  of  their  coppery  tint.  At  one  station  there  en- 
tered the  car  a white  Peruvian  baby,  richly  dressed  as  some  little  prin- 
cess, fingerless  white  gloves  on  her  tiny  hands,  borne  on  the  back  of 
an  unbelievably  dirty  Indian  girl  of  twelve,  whose  filthy  felt  hat  the 
regally  clad  infant  alternately  picked  and  thrust  its  fingers  into  its 
mouth.  Its  parents  were  enjoying  babyless  freedom  with  their  friends 
in  the  first-class  car,  and  incidentally  saving  the  difference  in  the 
servant’s  fare.  Thus  the  unwashed  Indian  intrudes  everywhere,  al- 
ways, from  altar  to  kitchen,  from  nursemaid  to  grave-digger,  and  the 
fact  never  strikes  the  most  haughty  Andean  as  incongruous.  Had 
the  old  Spanish  chroniclers  been  of  the  realistic  school,  we  should 
no  doubt  have  learned  that  the  Inca’s  bread  was  also  dropped  on  a 
mud  floor,  and  picked  up  with  unwashed  fingers  before  it  was  pre- 
sented to  him  on  a golden  platter.  In  all  the  pages  of  Prescott  there 
is  no  suggestion  of  uncleanliness.  His  Indians  are  as  spotless  as 
if  they  had  been  scrubbed  and  scoured  with  New  England  zeal  before 
they  were  admitted  to  the  muslin-shaded  twilight  of  his  study. 
Yet  he  who  has  physically  traveled  through  what  was  once  the  Em- 
pire of  the  Incas  cannot  but  suspect  that  the  Puritan-bred  historian,  for 
all  his  marvelously  living  and  breathing  masterpiece,  inadvertently  — 
or  puritanically  — gave  in  this  respect  a false  picture  of  the  ancient 
kingdom. 

It  was  nearing  sunset  when  groves  of  eucalypti  began  to  ride  close  by 
the  train-windows,  then  rows  of  mud  huts  alternating  with  little  farms 
of  alfalfa,  then  larger  adobe  houses,  and  at  length  we  drew  up  at 
Huancayo,  the  end  of  railroading  in  central  Peru.  For  many  years 
there  have  been  plans  to  carry  the  railway  on  to  Ayacucho,  and  even 
a wild  project  of  some  day  pushing  it  across  to  Cuzco,  and  of  linking  it 

340 


Miners  of  Morococha  — a Welch  foreman  and  two  of  his  A typical  miner  of  the  high  Peruvian  Andes.  The  cloth 

gang,  whom  I had  brought  to  the  surface  from  some  around  his  head  under  his  hat  ;s  pink;  his  poncho_ 

2000  feet  underground.  Note  the  mine  lamps.  red  and  b!ock.  his  feet  are  covered  with  the 

This  particular  “ Natividad  ” mine  is  so  wet  hairy  busk!ns  worn  by  the  men  on]y 

that  oilskins  are  required 


ROUND  ABOUT  THE  PERUVIAN  CAPITAL 


up  with  the  railways  of  the  south.  Fortunately,  nothing  had  yet  come 
of  the  scheme,  and  what  lay  before  me  depended  thereafter  on  my  own 
exertions,  with  whatever  of  charm  that  remained  to  the  ancient  but 
now  slightly  traveled  route  through  the  heart  of  Peru,  as  the  reward. 

Huancayo,  boasting  — as  towns  of  the  Sierra  will — 10,000  inhabi- 
tants, in  a rich  and,  in  better  seasons,  well-watered  valley,  consists 
chiefly  of  one  long,  broad  street,  perhaps  the  broadest  in  Peru,  paved 
with  small,  round  stones,  a ditch  of  water  stagnating  through  its  cen- 
ter. On  either  side  it  is  lined  by  wrought-'iron  rejas  and  open  shop- 
doors  ; at  either  end  it  dies  out  in  sand  and  cactus-bordered  paths  be- 
tween mud-huts.  As  the  main  plaza  of  Riobamba  is  to  Ecuador,  this 
street  forms  the  center  of  what  is  reputed  the  greatest  native  market 
in  Peru.  Each  Sunday  it  offers  a pulsating  vista  of  Indians  from  a 
hundred  miles  around,  in  every  color  known  to  an  artist’s  palette  — 
and  some  which  the  boldest  of  painters  would  not  venture  to  use  — an 
unbroken  stretch  of  humanity,  shimmering  in  the  glaring  sunshine. 
An  expert  stenographer  might  wander  all  day  through  the  surging 
throng  without  being  able  to  set  down  the  mere  names  of  the  wares 
displayed,  to  say  nothing  of  the  endless  variety  of  garments,  types, 
faces,  and  customs.  So  packed  with  details  is  the  far-famed  market, 
that  only  a cinematograph  ribbon  could  give  even  a faint  notion  of  its 
activities ; mere  words  are  as  powerless  to  paint  its  motley  variety  as 
to  catch  the  subtle  charm  of  Huancayo  itself,  with  its  perfect  climate 
and  crystalline  sunshine. 


341 


CHAPTER  XIV 


OVERLAND  TOWARD  CUZCO 

THE  truly  romantic  thing,  of  course,  would  have  been  to  buy 
a llama  to  bear  my  burdens  to  the  capital  of  the  ancient 
Inca  Empire.  But  however  in  keeping  with  the  local  color 
that  prehistoric  denizen  of  the  Andes  might  have  been,  there  were  at 
least  a score  of  cold,  practical,  modern  reasons  why  he  was  not 
suited  to  my  purpose.  A few  of  them,  such  as  pace,  disposition,  slight 
powers  of  sustained  endurance,  and  uncompanionable  temperament, 
experience  had  demonstrated  native  to  a donkey,  also.  A horse,  as  a 
famous  traveler  has  remarked,  is  a delicate  and  uncertain  ally.  A 
mule,  in  addition  to  several  traits  inherited  from  his  paternal  fore- 
bear, had  the  drawback  of  unattainability ; for  the  house  of  Rothchild 
and  I have  this  in  common  — that  our  wealth  is  not  unlimited.  There 
remained,  however,  an  animal  unknown  to  mankind  at  large  that  fitted 
my  requirements  exactly,  as  exactly  at  least  as  is  possible  in  this  im- 
perfect world, — the  Peruvian  imitation  of  a horse.  In  a bare  three 
centuries  this  descendent  of  our  “ fine  lady  among  animals  ” has 
adapted  himself  to  Andean  conditions.  His  small,  compact  hoofs  are 
almost  as  sure  on  precarious  mountain-trails  as  those  of  the  mule ; 
he  is  gifted  with  an  uncomplaining  endurance  far  beyond  what  his 
appearance  suggests ; and  he  possesses  an  even,  peaceful  temper,  and 
an  absence  of  ambition  and  personal  initiative  equal  to  his  fellow- 
countryman,  the  Indian.  Moreover,  he  is  capable  of  sustaining  life 
and  strength  for  an  indefinite  period  on  the  sparse  and  hardy  vege- 
tation of  the  uplands,  and  is,  at  certain  seasons,  within  reach  of  a 
modest  purse. 

“ Foxy’s  ” mozo  owned  such  a chusco  and,  the  feast  of  his  patron 
saint  being  near  at  hand,  was  induced  to  sell.  I took  to  the  animal 
at  first  sight.  Not  that  he  was  a thing  of  beauty,  in  his  shaggy  coat 
of  shedding  reddish-brown;  but  it  was  this  very  air  of  unpretentious 
modesty  and  un Andean  sense  of  duty  over  mere  personal  appear- 
ance that  won  my  instant  regard.  Here,  surely,  was  a companion  who 
would  keep  his  own  counsel  under  the  most  trying  circumstances. 

342 


OVERLAND  TOWARD  CUZCO 


Being  no  larger  than  a large  donkey,  he  was  nicely  fitted  to  the  modest 
load  of  some  sixty  pounds  that  was  destined  to  represent  his  share  of 
the  world’s  labor.  Not  merely  was  he  newly  shod,  but  he  had  been 
enjoying  the  unbroken  freedom  of  a potrero  for  several  days,  and 
should  therefore  be  in  condition  to  hold  his  own  for  an  indefinite 
period,  provided  I did  not  set  too  swift  a pace.  The  masculine  gender 
was  an  asset  not  to  be  overlooked.  Not  merely  did  my  sense  of  chiv- 
alry forbid  sentencing  any  member  of  the  other  sex  to  the  hardships 
that  rumor  insisted  lay  before  us,  but  once  they  had  been  surmounted,  I 
would  not  have  my  glory  smudged  by  the  possibility  of  a mere  female 
boasting  that  she  had  also  accomplished  the  feat.  Again,  the  animal 
had  never  been  fifty  miles  east  of  Huancayo;  and  I am  of  those  who 
find  no  pleasure  in  a trip  with  a companion  who  has  already  been  over 
the  route.  The  mere  nine  dollars  at  which  we  finally  came  to  terms 
seemed  a slight  equivalent  for  all  these  virtues,  though  I took  care  not 
to  hint  that  impression  to  the  erstwhile  owner.  The  matter  of  a name 
was  no  problem  at  all.  Even  the  Peruvians  unconsciously  tacked  on 
the  diminutive  ito  as  often  as  they  referred  to  my  new  fellow-adven- 
turer, and  it  was  natural  that  I should  have  instantly  dubbed  him 
Chusquito. 

Relieved  of  the  necessity  of  being  my  own  packhorse,  I could 
somewhat  increase  my  outfit.  In  Lima  I had  acquired  a rum-burner, 
with  coffee-pot,  frying-pan,  and  soup-boiling  attachments  that  closed 
up  into  a compact  kitchenette  about  six  inches  in  diameter.  With 
this  went  a bottle  of  alcohol,  that  could  be  filled  at  any  town 
“ muy  provisto  de  todo  ” along  the  way.  “ Foxy  ” himself,  whose 
faults,  as  every  gringo  up  and  down  the  Andes  knows,  do  not  include 
at  lack  of  generosity,  insisted  that  he  would  be  forced  to  throw  away  a 
somewhat  worn,  but  still  very  serviceable,  rubber  poncho,  unless  I car- 
ried it  off ; and  this,  with  my  llama-hair  poncho  from  Quito,  was  des- 
tined to  shield  me  from  many  a bitter  night  on  lofty  mountain-ranges. 
The  clothing  requisite  for  every  possible  variation  of  altitude,  and 
photographic  supplies  sufficient  to  avoid  the  ill-will  of  local  “ authori- 
ties,” made  up  the  bulk  of  my  alforjas.  Then  there  was  room  for  a 
native  and  a foreign  book,  for  a half-liter  of  pisco,  with  which  to  win 
the  esteem  of  isolated  Indians,  a bag  of  cocoa  leaves  and  the  accom- 
panying burnt-banana  lime,  to  sustain  such  estimation,  a candle  for  the 
endless  Andean  evenings,  and  a sufficient  supply  of  imperishable  food- 
stuffs to  relieve  my  mind  of  the  harrassing  daily  preoccupation  of  find- 
ing hospitality  before  dark.  Even  my  coat  and  kodak  could  be  hung 

343 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


on  the  pack,  leaving  me  free  to  stride  lazily  along,  dressed  in  my 
shirt-sleeves  and  a cynical  smile. 

It  was  the  tenth  day  of  September  when  I creaked  my  hobnailed 
way  out  of  Huancayo’s  interminable  street,  my  only  load  the  end  of  a 
clothes-line  that  tempered  Chusquito’s  pace  to  my  own.  At  the  prin- 
cipal pulpena  his  former  owner  drank  my  health  in  pisco,  and,  though 
he  shed  no  tear,  it  might  easily  have  made  a clean  mark  down  his 
cheek.  Of  the  road  to  Cuzco  I knew  nothing,  except  that  it  led 
through  four  “ cities,”  and  th^t  I should  never  reach,  much  less  bring 
my  four-footed  companion  to,  the  end  of  a journey  on  which  not  even 
a “ son  of  the  country  ” would  “ venture  himself  ” without  a guide 
and  a tropilla  of  mules  and  arrieros.  For  myself  I had  no  misgiv- 
ings; as  to  Chusquito,  I trusted  to  frequent  halts  and  a militant 
attitude  that  should  win  him  an  unaccustomed  wealth  of  fodder  to 
confound  the  pessimists.  All  Huancayo  gazed  after  me  from  their 
doorways  with  a mixture  of  astonishment  and  incredulity  as  I set  out. 
Now  is  it  not  strange,  when  walking  is  the  first  and,  indeed,  the  only 
natural  means  of  locomotion,  that  people  who  look  with  complacency 
upon  men  on  horseback,  and  upon  trains,  men  who  have  heard  of  auto- 
mobiles and  aeroplanes,  should  gasp  with  wonder  to  see  a man  journey- 
ing afoot ; and  that  andarines  may  go  about  living  on  the  country  and 
gathering  certificates  from  every  possible  source  to  prove  they  do 
walk;  as  if  there  were  any  virtue  in  that  action,  except  the  purely 
personal  pleasure  of  it,  or  nothing? 

Even  the  burden  of  the  tow-rope  did  not  last  long.  Chusquito, 
being  an  experienced  pack-animal,  I soon  found  could  be  left  to  his 
own  devices.  In  his  own  country,  he  knew  fully  as  well  as  I how 
to  climb  up  and  down  rocky,  mountain  trails,  and  if  he  showed  a 
tendency  now  and  then  to  wander  off  across  the  pampa,  especially  at 
sight  of  some  of  his  own  kindred,  it  was  natural  that  he  should  have 
been  somewhat  bored  at  merely  human  companionship.  Within  two 
days  we  were  strolling  along  like  lifelong  friends,  at  an  even  gait  that 
never  called  for  cudgel  acceleration,  and  I journeyed  as  serenely  as  if 
I had  found  at  last  that  automatic  baggage  of  which  I had  so  long 
dreamed,  only  subconsciously  aware  that  my  possessions  were  march- 
ing peacefully  before  me.  The  mind  ran  unbidden  over  the  many 
improvements  that  might  be  added, — a tent  and  more  supplies;  or  I 
might  even  become  an  itinerant  photographer  or  peddler,  and  earn  my 
way  as  I went,  instead  of  greeting  with  disdainful  silence  the  frequent 
question,  “ Que  lleva  de  venta?  ” But  on  one  point  I was  quickly  dis- 

344 


OVERLAND  TOWARD  CUZCO 


illusioned.  Somehow  I had  pictured  a pack-animal  as  simply  a per- 
ambulating chest  of  drawers,  fancying  that  I had  merely  to  hang  my 
possessions  on  the  animal’s  back,  snatching  up  anything  as  I chanced  to 
need  it.  Whereas  in  real  life  I found  that  everything  must  be  made 
snug  and  tight,  and  secured  by  the  intricate  “ diamond-hitch  ” that 
made  it  as  inaccessible  on  the  march  as  if  it  had  been  left  behind. 

At  Pucara,  where  the  great  valley  of  the  Huancas  narrows  and 
begins  to  squeeze  the  trail  upward,  the  inhabitants  were  killing  a cow 
and  stringing  it  up  between  two  trees  in  the  center  of  the  grass-grown 
plaza.  All  the  beef  that  could  not  be  disposed  of  on  the  spot  was  cut 
into  sheets  a half-inch  thick,  and  left  to  dry  in  the  sun.  By  reason 
of  this  treatment  all  meat  in  the  Andes  is  hopelessly  tough;  either  it  is 
“ green,”  direct  from  the  hand  of  the  butcher,  or  charqui  of  sole- 
leather  properties.  Veal  is  unknown,  for  who  would  slaughter  a calf 
that  would  grow  up  into  several  times  its  weight  in  beef  ? Mutton  is 
scarce,  or  treated  to  the  same  charqui-ing  process;  and  pork  is  of 
Hebraic  rarity.  Besides,  the  traveler  who  longs  for  a rasher  of  crisp 
bacon  is  more  easily  content  to  assuage  his  appetite  in  beef  when  ex- 
perience has  taught  him  what  the  pigs  of  the  Andes  feed  on. 

There  was  no  public  eating-house  in  Pucara.  A party  of  a dozen 
men  and  women,  however,  all  more  or  less  gay  with  pisco,  were  glad 
of  assistance  in  making  away  with  their  share  in  the  weekly  killing. 
I tied  Chusquito  before  a bundle  of  wheat  straw  at  a corner  of  the 
plaza,  and  we  crowded  around  a wabbly-legged  table  in  a neighbor- 
ing mud  room,  and  dined  amid  an  uproar  of  maudlin  hilarity  and  a 
series  of  stories  often  of  a distinctly  “ raw  ” nature,  in  which  the 
females  easily  held  their  own.  Here  cancha,  or  toasted,  ripe,  shelled 
corn  did  duty  as  bread,  and  each  helping  of  beef  was  flanked  by 
boiled  chuno,  or  small,  frozen  potatoes.  Then  there  were  camotes  de 
la  sierra,  one  of  the  several  species  of  the  potato  family  unknown  in 
other  lands,  a soft,  sweetish,  mushy  tuber  of  the  shape  of  a large 
peanut,  which  it  was  a la  mode  to  pick  from  the  plate  with  the  fingers, 
and  dip  before  each  bite  into  the  general  bowl  of  aji,  the  Incaic  pep- 
pers so  beloved  of  the  ancient  Peruvians.  As  in  all  Peru,  it  was  the 
custom  here  to  drink  the  health  of  a companion  and  expect  him  to 
round  the  circle  ad  infinitum  et  intoxicatum.  Luckily,  my  companions 
were  so  far  gone  in  liquor,  even  before  my  arrival,  that  I managed  to 
avoid  most  of  the  fiery  “ copitas  ” without  giving  offense. 

In  the  group  was  the  cholo  school-master  of  the  baked-mud  Es- 
cuela  Fiscal  de  Varones  across  the  plaza.  He  was  a native  of  Car- 

345 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


huaz,  and  grew  so  excited  over  the  extraordinary  fact  that  I had  not 
only  been  in  his  birthplace  but  had  traveled  thence  “ by  land  ” that, 
irrespective  of  the  pisco,  he  was  unable  to  begin  the  afternoon  session 
when  the  boys  gathered  at  one  o’clock.  It  did  n’t  matter  anyway, 
he  confided,  since  he  spoke  no  Quichua  and  the  pupils  almost  no 
Spanish,  and  he  would  get  his  salary  — whenever  the  government  had 
the  money  — whether  he  pretended  to  teach  or  not.  The  school 
system  of  Peru  being  centralized,  like  that  of  France,  orders  from 
Lima  sometimes  transfer  a maestro  from  one  province  to  another  with- 
out any  notion  as  to  whether  or  not  he  is  fitted  to  his  new  assignment. 
The  boys,  all  but  one  of  whom  were  at  least  half  Indian,  could  mispro- 
nounce a few  sentences  from  the  “ Lives  of  the  Saints,”  but  few 
could  recognize  one  letter  from  another.  Though  he  had  nothing  to 
show  in  the  way  of  teaching,  the  maestro  pointed  with  pride  to  the 
school-name  in  huge  red  letters,  all  but  covering  the  adobe  facade,  as 
an  example  of  his  handiwork  and  “ culture.”  We  spent  an  hour  or 
more  in  posing  the  school  for  a group  in  the  act  of  saluting  the 
national  flag,  the  “ teacher  ” insisting  on  changing  his  brilliant  red 
poncho  for  a khaki  coat  before  he  would  face  the  kodak,  and  of 
course  he  grew  enraged  because  I was  so  miserly  as  to  refuse  to  deliver 
a dozen  copies  of  the  picture  on  the  spot.  Another  round  of  “ copi- 
tas  ” restored  his  amiability,  however,  and  he  insisted  on  giving  me 
“ something  not  to  forget  him  by,”  and  forced  upon  me  one  of  the 
unvarnished  lead-pencils  which  the  government  supplied  his  pupils. 

Travelers  were  frequent  on  the  vast,  rising  world  beyond,  where  the 
great  valley  of  the  Huantas  shrivelled  and  disappeared  into  the  past. 
Indian  women  trotted  by,  not  only  with  a load  and  a baby  on  their 
backs,  but  often  suckling  the  infant  as  they  went.  Ccoto,  as  the  Incas 
called  goitre,  was  common.  Llama-trains,  driven  by  fishy-eyed, 
noiseless  Indians  with  colored  rags  around  their  heads  under  their 
thick,  gray  felt  hats,  passed  frequently.  There  are  few  more  inter- 
esting sights  than  that  afforded  by  two  of  these  trains  shuttling  through 
each  other  on  a narrow  mountain  trail,  each  animal  keeping  its  course 
as  unerringly  as  a homing-pigeon.  At  a rocky  turn  of  the  road  one  of 
the  frail  beasts  lay  dying,  an  Indian  boy  slashing  the  gay  ribbons  out  of 
its  still  quivering  ears  with  a crude  cutlass.  Chusquito  strongly 
objected  to  passing  a scene  so  fraught  with  the  dangers  and  cruelties 
of  the  trail.  It  was  our  first  real  difference  of  opinion.  From  Inca 
days  it  seems  to  have  been  the  custom  to  decorate  the  ears  of  llamas 
with  these  bits  of  bright  cloth,  less  from  artistic  notions  than  as  a 

346 


OVERLAND  TOWARD  CUZCO 


means  of  designating  the  ownership.  To-day  even  the  cows,  bulls, 
goats,  and  sheep  of  certain  regions  are  thus  embellished  — often  with 
ludicrous  results.  When,  as  here,  the  matter  is  carried  so  far  as  to 
beribbon  the  donkeys,  it  seems  time  to  call  a halt ; for  what  can  look 
more  absurdly  incongruous  than  a plodding  ass  solemnly  waving  with 
the  monotonous  rhythm  of  his  gait  his  gaily  bedecked  ears. 

Beyond  Marcavalle,  on  the  second  day,  the  stony  road  was  for  a 
time  even  more  densely  populated  by  llama,  donkey,  and  mule-trains, 
by  haughty,  white-collared  gentry  ahorse,  and  villagers  afoot,  all, — 
“ gente,”  arrieros,  Indians  of  both  sexes,  and,  one  could  almost  be- 
lieve, the  very  llamas  — silly  or  stupid  with  drink.  Even  the  women 
chewed  coca,  each  bulging  cheek  suggesting  a cud  of  tobacco.  Indian 
women,  that  is,  for  in  a land  where  every  man  rides  it  is  the  rarest 
sight  to  see  a woman  on  horseback ; and  even  the  chola  who  drags 
her  skirts  through  the  accumulations  of  years  in  her  native  hamlet, 
would  sooner  break  the  seventh  commandment  than  ride  astride. 
Then  bit  by  bit  the  travel  died  out ; the  single  telegraph  wire  strode 
knock-kneed  away  over  an  uninhabited  world,  and  for  an  unbroken 
half  day  we  tramped  across  a vast  brown  pampa,  with  only  an  occa- 
sional flock  of  sheep,  the  stone  and  straw  kennels  of  shepherds  at  so 
great  a distance  off  that  I must  trust  as  usual  to  luck  in  guessing 
aright  among  many  faint  paths,  and  at  times  even  total  absence  thereof. 

The  adobe-and-thatch  Indian  hamlet  of  Nahuinpuquio  was  en 
; fiesta , celebrating  some  church  holiday.  The  air  pulsated  with  the 
harsh  and  discordant  noise  of  fife  and  drum,  in  the  melancholy 
rhythm  of  all  music  of  the  aboriginals,  and  the  drear  landscape  was 
brightened  here  and  there  by  groups  of  dancers,  Indians  in  fantastic 
costumes  and  ludicrous  masks,  who  danced  in  fixed  spots  without 
moving  a yard  an  hour  in  any  direction.  Over  the  valleyed  and 
rocky  face  of  the  mountain  beyond,  a bit  of  the  road  consisted  of 
rough-stone  steps  that  may  have  been  part  of  the  old  Inca  highway. 
Then  the  trail  pitched  down  into  an  ever  warmer  valley,  the  enclosing 
hillsides  and  rocky  ranges  marked  off  in  hundreds  of  little  stone- 
fenced  patches,  most  of  them  newly  plowed  and  waiting  for  rain. 
Toward  sunset  we  came  out  suddenly  above  a river  brilliant  green 
with  the  patches  of  verdure  stretching  along  it  as  far  as  the  eye 
could  command, — the  Mantaro,  racing  Amazonward  through  its  rock- 
hewn  gorge,  with  villages  tucked  away  here  and  there  up  the  face  of 
the  great  cliffs  that  rose  ever  higher  as  we  wound  forever  downward 
round  and  round  the  headlands. 


347 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


In  the  parlor  of  the  “ Hacienda  Casma,”  where  shake-downs  were 
prepared  for  three  travelers  whom  chance  had  brought  together  in 
the  half-tropical  throat  of  the  valley,  lay  piled  the  Huancayo-Huan- 
cavelica  mail,—  in  virtually  new  American  mail-sacks.  The  unusually 
noiseless  sincerity  of  our  host  and  the  extraordinary  order  of  his 
establishment  surprised  me  not  a little,  until  I learned  that  he  was 
Argentine  born.  These  rural  haciendas  take  life  easily.  It  was  nearly 
eight  next  morning  before  we  drifted  together  for  coffee,  bread,  and 
cheese,  and  some  time  later  that  the  mayordomo  prevailed  upon  his 
Indian  assistants  to  drive  from  the  hacienda  pasture  a score  of  mules 
and  horses,  from  which  we  each  chose  our  animals.  While  I sat 
reading  in  the  fresh,  bird-singing,  June  morning,  awaiting  my  four- 
footed  companion,  a travel-stained  Indian  slipped  noiselessly  into 
the  yard  with  a letter  which  the  wife  of  the  hacendado  opened  and 
began  to  read.  Her  suppressed  laughter  soon  drew  the  attention  of 
her  husband,  who,  having  taken  possession  of  the  epistle,  began  in 
his  turn  to  shake  with  mirth.  When  he  had  finished,  he  sent  out  of 
ear-shot  the  Indians  who  flocked  in  and  about  the  corredor,  and  read 
the  note  to  his  guests.  It  was  from  the  parish  priest  high  up  on  the 
mighty  range  that  shut  in  the  river,  and  ran  in  part,  all  in  a solemn, 
almost  sanctimonious  tone : 

“ Yesterday,  dear  compadre,  while  on  a round  of  confession  among 
my  scattered  flock,  to  whom  God  grant  all  blessings,  I found  in  the 

house  of  the  widow  a poor  little  orphan,  newly  born.  Now  I 

beg  of  you  in  the  name  of  charity  and  the  Holy  Church  to  do  me  the 
inestimable  service  of  acting  as  godfather  to  this  unfortunate  little 
innocent,  that  it  may  not  be  in  danger  of  dying  in  mortal  sin  for 
want  of  baptism.  We  will  ride  there  on  Thursday.  . . . Now  I beg 
and  pray  you,  dear  compadre,  to  grant  me  this  favor,  and  above  all 
to  say  nothing  whatever  of  this  matter  to  anyone,  since  it  is  of  no 
importance  to  any  but  ourselves,  not  even  to  mention  it  to  your  good 
and  pious  wife,  whom  God  . . .” 

“ But  — ” I began,  somewhat  at  a loss  to  account  for  the  roars 
of  laughter  that  increased  with  each  phrase. 

“ Why,  it ’s  — you  see  it ’s  — well,  the  padre  knows  the  widow 
well,  very  well  indeed,”  explained  my  host,  wiping  his  eyes  with  a 
corner  of  his  poncho,  “ and  this  is  the  fourth  time  since  I became 
owner  of  Casma  that  he  has  asked  me  to  be  godfather  to  some  poor 
little  orphan  he  has  found  in  different  parts  of  his  scattered  parish. 
He  is  a man  of  force,  is  the  padre.  But  of  course  he  does  n’t  want 

348 


A hint  of  what  the  second-class  traveler  on  Peruvian  railways  must  put  up  with — without 
the  clashing  of  colors  and  the  odors  of  pisco  and  chicha 


The  wide  main  street  and  a part  of  the  immense  market  of  Huancayo.  said  to  be  the  largest 
in  Peru.  The  Indians,  dressed  in  every  shade  of  vivid  colors  and  carrying 
every  species  of  native  product,  trot  in  from  a hundred 
miles  around  for  this  Sunday  gathering 


OVERLAND  TOWARD  CUZCO 


the  good  and  pious  sehoras  of  his  flock  to  know  about  his  little 
amusements.  We  Argentinos,  however  — well,  who  knows  the  secret 
of  keeping  a secret  from  a woman,”  he  concluded,  gazing  after  his 
wife  as  she  hurried  away,  her  shoulders  still  shaking. 

At  the  ancient  and  graceful  arched  bridge  across  the  Mantaro,  a 
half-day  further  down,  I came  to  the  parting  of  the  ways.  The 
direct  trail  to  Ayacucho  continued  along  the  stony,  winding  river- 
bank  to  Tablachaca  (Plank-bridge),  but  Huancavelica  promised  in- 
terest in  proportion  to  its  isolation,  and  I prevailed  upon  Chusquito  to 
undertake  the  long,  stiff  climb  up  the  face  of  the  range  under  the  ver- 
tical blazing  sunshine.  Little  patches,  inhabited  since  time  imme- 
morial, stood  out  here  and  there,  their  green  trees,  flowers,  and  fruit- 
odors,  in  as  sharp  contrast  to  the  grim  mountain  flanks  as  any  oasis 
of  the  Sahara.  Somewhat  above  the  ancient  town  of  Izcochaca, 
spilled  up  the  hillside,  rocks  of  a faint  red  or  purple  hue  are  dug  out 
of  the  mountainside  and  tied  in  pairs  on  the  backs  of  donkeys  or 
llamas,  scores  of  which  we  passed  on  their  way  to  the  great  market 
of  Huancayo.  Even  the  inexperienced  Andean  traveler  might  easily 
have  guessed  what  these  stones  were,  from  the  habit  of  the  donkeys  of 
licking  the  burdens  of  their  fellows  at  every  halt.  Salt  is  a government 
monopoly  in  Peru,  and  truly  Peruvian  in  its  condition.  In  the  rural 
districts  he  who  asks  for  salt  is  handed  a stone  — and  a hammer  with 
which  to  break  it.  Or  in  lieu  of  the  latter  he  may  beat  two  slabs  of 
this  mountainside  rock  together,  and  sprinkle  the  resultant  gravel  on 
his  food.  It  behooves  the  wise  traveler  to  carry  his  own  kodak-tin 
of  civilized  salt,  for  even  in  the  larger  towns  this  is  often  unattainable. 

All  the  afternoon  we  undulated  across  a lofty  mountain-top,  with  a 
few  human  kennels  of  shepherds  stuck  on  rock-ledges  along  the  way, 
passing  through  one  straw  hamlet  bright  new  in  outward  appearance, 
since  threshing-time  had  but  recently  passed.  In  Huando,  one  of 
those  dismal,  rocky,  comfortless,  cold  Indian  towns  that  abound  in 
the  Sierra,  I made  my  first  acquaintance  with  alcaldes  carrying  silver- 
mounted  staffs  of  office.  His  bedraggled  wife,  who  was  much  more 
at  home  in  Ouichua  than  in  Spanish,  sent  a messenger  to  announce 
my  arrival  to  the  gobernador.  The  latter  was  a quaint  little  man  in 
side-burns,  wearing  the  only  even  theoretically  white  collar  in  town,  and 
a not  too  successful  imitation  of  “ European  ” garb  that  did  not  exactly 
set  off  to  advantage  his  bashful  rural  dignity.  There  ensued  that 
long,  diplomatic  parley  by  means  of  which  the  traveler  at  length 
wins  hospitality  — in  rural  Peru  the  word  must  be  taken  with  a 

349 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


scanty  meaning,  since  it  commonly  consists  of  permission  to  spread 
one’s  own  trappings  on  the  earth  floor  of  the  corredor.  He  who  would 
be  successful  even  in  this  must  never  state  his  wants  abruptly,  but  only 
gradually  drift  toward  them,  without  appearing  to  care  particularly 
whether  he  be  granted  the  permission  or  not.  Ramon  Lagos,  how- 
ever, for  all  his  childlike  simplicity,  knew  the  duty  of  a gobernador 
toward  a distinguished  traveler,  even  though  he  could  not  fathom  my 
reason  for  coming  on  foot.  By  the  time  cold  night  was  settling  down 
he  had  sent  an  Indian  to  pile  my  possessions  in  the  corredor,  and  in 
due  season  the  most  soapless  of  Indian  girls  arrived  with  a puchero, 
the  Irish-stew  of  the  Andes,  containing  the  wing  and  drumstick  of  a 
guinea-pig,  and  carrying  carefully  on  the  end  of  a fork  — no  doubt 
after  having  stuck  it  there  with  her  unmentionable  fingers  — another 
fat  leg  of  the  same  squeaky  rodent.  Then  there  was  ancient  bread 
and  weak  willow-leaf  tea,  and  a la  postre  my  hostess  came  to  share 
with  me  a delicacy  she  called  “ chicharron,” — strips  of  hard-fried  pork. 

Meanwhile,  I had  diplomatically  put  the  gobernador  in  possession 
of  ten  cents,  with  which  to  buy  fodder  for  Chusquito.  A messenger 
went  forth,  and  in  due  time  an  Indian  alguacil  on  the  down-grade  of 
life  appeared,  bearing  his  barajo  with  all  the  dignity  of  an  English 
beadle.  Behind  him  came  several  youthful  assistants,  with  less  pre- 
tentious staffs  of  office.  Though  they  are  appointed  by  compulsion, 
these  aids  to  the  ruler  of  an  Andean  town  are  proud  in  their  un- 
demonstative  way  of  being  thus  raised  above  the  common  rabble. 
None  of  them  would  permit  even  the  wife  of  the  gobernador  to  take 
the  black  cane  with  silver  bands  out  of  his  hands,  and  I could  only 
admire  them  at  a distance.  Not  one  of  the  alguaciles  spoke  a word  of 
Spanish.  The  gobernador  in  a Napoleonic  voice  gave  the  old  man  an 
order  for  two  nickel’s  worth  of  straw.  Apparently  it  was  not  etiquette 
for  the  younger  aids  of  government  to  understand  the  command 
direct  from  the  lips  of  the  great  gobernador  himself.  The  chief 
alcalde  bowed  faintly  and  turned  to  stride  away  with  an  authorita- 
tive, if  soft-footed  tread.  To  carry  out  the  order  himself?  No,  in- 
deed ! Instead,  he  passed  it  on  to  one  of  the  youths,  whose  badge  of 
office  was  a much  shorter  staff,  tied  to  his  wrist,  that  it  might  not  inter- 
fere with  the  actual  and  physical  carrying  out  of  the  command.  Some- 
what later  one  of  these  returned,  struggling  under  a great  bundle  of 
straw,  the  old  Indian  strutting  behind  him,  in  all  the  dignity  of  his  high 
authority  still  firmly  grasping  his  barajo.  After  them  came  a girl, 
evidently  the  inferior  of  another  of  the  authoritative  youths,  carrying 

350 


OVERLAND  TOWARD  CUZCO 


at  least  a peck  of  cebada,  or  barley.  I sat  late  superintending  the 
repast  of  my  companion,  for  only  the  inexperienced  Andean  traveler 
will  trust  to  native  supervision  of  his  animal’s  requirements. 

Not  only  do  the  Indian  alcaldes  and  alguaciles  hold  office  for  the 
mere  “ honor  ” of  the  position,  but  the  gobernadores  themselves  are 
appointed  on  compulsion  and  receive  no  reward,  except  from  the 
traveler  who,  with  great  care  not  to  give  offense,  chooses  to  make  up 
for  this  governmental  oversight.  The  news  of  my  arrival  had  spread 
through  the  town,  and  in  the  morning  the  alguaciles  had  increased  to  a 
half-dozen,  who  sat  motionless  about  the  yard,  staring  like  ruminat- 
ing oxen  and  accepting  with  leisurely  avidity  the  crusts  of  my  de- 
sayuno,  handed  them  by  the  gobernador.  That  official,  certain  I could 
not  find  my  way  alone,  had  ordered  a youth  to  accompany  me.  But 
as  he  was  not  overjoyed  at  the  appointment,  it  was  no  hard  matter  to 
lose  him  in  the  bleak  and  gloomy  labyrinthian  town. 

An  all-day  tramp  across  an  often  laborious  upland,  brilliant  for  all 
its  yellow-brown  waste  under  the  broad  blue  lift  of  the  sky,  raised  a 
glacier-topped  range,  at  the  foot  of  which  lies  Huancavelica.  The 
rolling  uplands  were  alive  now  with  llamas,  alpacas,  and  sheep,  graz- 
ing together  as  one  family.  Here  was  the  “ home  ” of  the  llama  — 
which,  by  the  way,  is  the  Quichua  term  for  domesticated  animal  — 
the  only  beast  of  burden  known  to  the  inhabitants  of  Peru  before  the 
coming  of  the  Conquistadores,  their  only  domestic  animal,  in  fact,  ex- 
cept the  guinea-pig,  unless  we  count  the  now  exterminated  allcu. 
Relics  of  an  ancient  civilization  in  which  they  held  chief  place,  the 
llama  and  the  Indian  of  the  Andes  have  much  in  common ; they  seem 
two  branches  of  the  same  race  who  have  fallen  on  evil  days  together, 
to  plod  through  modern  life  like  ghosts  of  a far-off  past.  Both 
endure  only  the  high  altitudes;  both  are  firmly  wedded  to  their  ances- 
tral home;  both  suffer  uncomplainingly;  both  are  temperamentally 
incapable  of  haste.  The  llama  will  not  travel  alone,  but  only  in  com- 
pany with  its  fellows ; the  Indian  is  a moderately  effective  workman 
in  bees  or  bands,  but  lacks  the  self-reliance  requisite  to  indi- 
vidual accomplishment.  As  the  Indian  squanders  half  his  time  in 
fiestas  and  celebrations,  and  breaks  his  labors  frequently  for  a “ coca- 
time, so  the  llama  can  work  but  twelve  or  fifteen  days  a month, 
spending  the  rest  in  feeding.  The  drivers— 'and  only  an  Indian  can 
drive  them  are  as  soft-footed  as  the  animals  themselves,  never 
shouting  or  urging  them  on  with  those  cries  common  to  all  other 
arrieros. 


351 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


The  llama,  however,  is  more  cleanly  in  his  instincts  than  the  In- 
dian ; does  not  rival  him  as  a drunkard ; and,  above  all,  retains  a manly 
air,  even  under  adversity,  in  striking  contrast  to  the  slinking  manner 
of  his  human  companion.  He  is  the  aristocrat  among  animals. 
Ever  silent  — if  he  has  a bleat  or  cry,  I have  never  heard  it  — his 
gentle,  liquid  eyes  seem  to  look  unseeing  clear  through  one ; he  gazes 
upon  the  world  about  him  with  an  expression  of  timorous  disdain 
and  the  indifference  of  convinced  superiority.  His  dignified  attitude 
suggests  a proud  Inca  set  to  carrying  fire-wood,  or  a “ decayed  gentle- 
woman ” refusing  to  be  outwardly  cast  down  by  her  misfortunes ; his 
air  is  dreamy,  as  if  he  were  looking  back  to  the  time  when  he  and  the 
Incas  reigned  supreme  over  all  the  Andean  plateau.  Like  an  aristo- 
cratic prisoner  on  parole,  all  the  security  he  requires  is  a rope  laid 
across  his  neck,  or  a corral  bordered  round  with  stones  a foot  high. 
If  the  figure  may  be  carried  still  further,  there  is  yet  another  sugges- 
tion of  the  aristocrat  in  the  fact  that,  beneath  his  haughty  exterior,  he 
is  apt  to  be  stupid,  assuming  his  impressive  dignity  of  manner  to  cover 
this  interior  paucity  of  matter. 

Had  the  llama  been  found  in  North  America,  he  would  have  been 
exterminated  even  more  completely  than  was  the  Indian.  He  is  far 
too  slow  and  ineffective  a beast  of  burden  to  endure  long  against  our 
national  impatience.  He  carries  barely  a hundred  pounds,  and  covers 
at  best  ten  miles  a day,  grazing  along  the  way,  since  he  cannot  feed 
by  night.  But  in  the  leisurely  southern  continent  he  still  survives  on 
the  high,  cold  plateaux  that  are  his  natural  home,  as  the  thin,  hardy 
vegetation  of  paramos  and  punas  is  his  natural  food;  and  in  this  day 
of  trains  and  automobiles,  caravans  of  these  frail,  graceful  creatures, 
their  ears  gaily  decorated  with  bright  ribbons,  still  glide  across  the 
frigid  heights,  as  in  the  centuries  when  they  represented  the  only 
freighters  of  an  immense  empire. 

Graceful  when  he  walks,  the  llama  runs  with  much  the  same  awk- 
ward gait  as  the  kangaroo,  throwing  his  neck,  and  looking  at  a dis- 
tance like  an  ostrich  on  four  legs.  In  the  region  round  about  us  were 
grazing,  also,  many  alpacas  — here  called  pacos  — a far  uglier  ani- 
mal in  its  thick  wool  of  many  colors,  from  black  to  gray,  than  the 
gracefully  formed  and  generally  white  llama.  He  is  suggestive  of  a 
shaggy,  spring  bear,  and  though  he,  too,  occasionally  serves  as  a beast 
of  burden,  his  chief  value  is  in  his  wool.  Two  other  members  of  the 
same  Andean  family,  the  guanaco  and  the  vicuna,  found  chiefly  in  the 
wilder  regions  further  south,  are  never  domesticated.  The  latter, 

352 


OVERLAND  TOWARD  CUZCO 


graceful  and  delicate  as  a fawn,  produces  the  most  valuable  wool  to 
be  found  in  the  Western  Hemisphere. 

A native  horseman,  or,  more  exactly,  muleman,  had  fallen  in  with 
us,  after  striving  for  hours  to  overtake  us.  We  rose  and  fell  two  or 
three  times  more  over  rocky  ridges,  then  came  out  suddenly  on  the 
brow  of  a tremendous  ravine  above  Huancavelica,  in  a situation  ex- 
traordinary even  in  comparison  with  the  many  striking  ones  throughout 
the  Andes.  Grim,  almost  perpendicular  mountains,  their  jagged  sum- 
mits of  rock  like  decaying  fangs,  lay  piled  into  the  sky  on  every  hand, 
and  completely  boxed  in  a vega,  or  little,  flat  plain,  in  the  center  of 
which,  close  at  hand,  yet  far  below  us,  every  patio  of  the  city  lay  as 
plainly  in  sight  as  the  unroofed  houses  of  Paris  under  the  gaze  of 
“ Diable  Boiteu.”  The  trail  pitched  so  steeply  downward  that  the 
native  was  forced  to  dismount  and  lead  his  mule. 

“ You  see,”  he  boasted,  pointing  to  several  iron  crosses  on  almost 
inaccessible  crags  high  above  the  city,  “ this  is  a Christian  ” (by  which 
he  meant  Catholic)  country.” 

The  retort  suggested  itself  that  there  were  other  and  even  less 
pleasant  proofs  of  that  fact,  but  there  would  have  been  no  gain  in 
talking  plainly  to  one  of  his  low  mental  caliber.  The  Latin-American 
can  always  build  crosses  along  his  roads,  even  if  he  cannot  build  the 
roads  themselves.  Our  thighs  ached  from  the  swift  descent  long  be- 
fore we  passed  through  the  suburb  of  San  Cristobal,  separated  from  the 
town  proper  by  the  crystal-clear  little  mountain  river,  Ichu,  and  we 
had  all  but  encircled  the  department  capital  before  an  ancient  bridge  of 
mamposteria,  a mixture  of  mud,  stones,  and  plaster,  at  last  gave  us 
admittance. 

Rare  is  the  traveler  of  to-day  who  passes  through  Huancavelica. 
As  I climbed  the  slippery,  squeaky,  small-cobbled  streets  toward  the 
central  plaza,  I was  quickly  reminded  that  I was  far  from  the  haunts 
of  civilized  man,  in  an  isolated  world  where  even  the  sight  of  a strange 
face  is  a rare  treat,  to  say  nothing  of  a foreigner  in  shirt-sleeves, 
armed  with  a revolver  and  a sheath-knife,  struggling  to  drag  with  him 
a diminutive,  shaggy  mountain  pony  laden  with  miscellaneous  junk. 
For  Chusquito,  bewildered  by  the  surroundings  of  an  unknown  city, 
displayed  an  excitement  and  a waywardness  of  which  I had  not  sus- 
pected him  capable.  As  I entered  the  cobbled  and  grassy  plaza,  across 
which  the  towering  western  mountain-wall  was  already  throwing  its 
cold  evening  shadow,  the  chiefly  Indian  soldiers  on  guard  before  the 
Prefectura  stared  with  bulging  eyes,  and  rubbed  their  hands  across 

353 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


their  brows,  as  if  wondering  whether  they  saw  aright  and  whether  they 
should  do  anything  about  it.  The  adjoining  streets  were  long  lines  of 
gaping  faces,  each  new  group  falling  suddenly  silent  as  they  caught 
sight  of  the  unexpected  apparition  that  had  descended  unheralded  upon 
them,  and  the  at  best  slight  industry  and  energy  of  Huancavelica 
came  completely  to  a standstill. 

I was  supplied  with  no  fewer  than  six  letters  of  introduction.  The 
Prefectura  was  officially  closed,  which  made  one  useless.  I dragged 
Chusquito  into  the  patio  of  Dr.  Duran  next  door,  and  announced 
myself  possessor  of  a recommendation  to  the  lawyer  from  his  best 
friend  in  Lima.  He  acted  like  a Peruvian.  Not  merely  did  he  de- 
cline to  step  out  of  his  office,  but  sent  an  Indian  boy  to  demand  the 
letter.  When  I presented  myself  in  the  doorway  instead,  he  read  it 
with  fear  plainly  depicted  on  his  features  that  he  might  be  obliged 
to  offer  hospitality  to  a man  who  could  not  be  a caballero,  since  he  came 
on  foot,  and  as  plainly  sought  some  loophole  to  avoid  that  necessity. 
He  found  one,  too,  when  he  turned  again  to  the  envelope.  The  writer 
had  carelessly  written  the  first  name  and,  though  he  had  explained 
the  error,  had  not  taken  the  trouble  to  change  it. 

“ Ah,  but  this  letter  is  not  for  me,”  cried  the  lawyer  triumphantly, 
“it  is  addressed  to  Felipe,  and  I am  Enrique” — though  he  knew  as 
well  as  I that  there  was  not  another  Dr.  Duran  in  all  Huancavelica. 

The  open-mouthed  throng  that  had  massed  about  the  zaguan  led 
me  en  masse  to  a building  that  had  once  been  a hotel  on  the  further 
corner  of  the  plaza.  It  was  too  much  to  expect  the  inhabitants  to  know 
already  that  it  had  ceased  its  ministrations  to  transients  — the  pro- 
prietor had  been  barely  four  years  dead.  The  whispering  chorus  about 
me  swelled  gradually  to  the  audible  assertion  that  there  was  another 
establishment  a few  squares  away  which  “ sometimes  had  given  accomo- 
dations to  estranjeros.”  At  that  moment  a soldier,  bearing  a naked 
sword  in  one  hand  and  a musket  in  the  other,  came  running  to  say  that 
the  ayudante  wished  to  know  who  I was,  why,  where,  whence,  and  all 
the  rest  of  it, — and  that  I was  to  report  to  him  at  once.  I comman- 
deered the  messenger  to  lead  me  to  the  rumored  hostelry.  Before  we 
reached  it,  however,  a boy  shouted  to  a shopkeeper,  leaning  out  over 
his  half-door  to  watch  the  unwonted  excitement,  that  — a fact  I had 
chanced  to  mention  to  some  one,  whereupon  it  instantly  became  general 
knowledge  — I had  a letter  for  Solomon  Atala.  The  “ Turk,”  for 
such  he  was,  dashed  into  the  crowd  and  announced  himself  the 
addressee. 


354 


OVERLAND  TOWARD  CUZCO 


“ Very  well ; you  will  come  and  live  at  my  house,”  he  cried,  when  he 
had  perused  the  note. 

I protested  that  a public  hostelry  in  the  Andes  was  too  rare  a luxury 
to  be  lightly  given  up,  and  that  it  was  bad  enough  to  intrude  upon  pri- 
vate families  when  there  was  no  other  alternative.  The  “ Turk  ” would 
not  hear  any  such  argument.  I had  been  recommended  by  his  good 
friend,  and  I belonged  to  him  as  long  as  I chose  to  remain  in  Huan- 
cavelica.  Memories  of  Palestine  reminded  me  that  to  men  of  his  race 
hospitality  has  none  of  the  hollow  nothingness  common  to  Peru. 
While  we  stood  talking,  a boy  surreptitiously  led  Chusquito  off  down  a 
gaping  side-street  to  the  “ Turk’s  ” home,  and  I had  perforce  to  follow. 
My  possessions  disappeared  through  a narrow  door  within  a door,  once 
through  which  I found  myself  in  the  littered  patio  of  an  ancient  house 
of  ample,  rambling  proportions.  A female  voice  bade  me  mount  a cen- 
tury-worn stairway  to  a sagging  second-story  balcony  completely  sur- 
rounding the  yard.  Barely  had  I dubiously  set  foot  upon  it  than  there 
popped  out  several  slatternly  women  and  the  mightiest  swarm  of  un- 
assorted children  I had  ever  yet  seen  in  captivity.  My  imagination 
began  to  picture  what  sleeping,  and  writing  notes,  and  getting  the  few 
days’  rest  to  which  I was  entitled,  would  be  in  that  swarming  house- 
hold, and  unable  to  think  of  any  ceremonial  excuse,  I slipped  down  the 
aged  stairs,  untied  Chusquito,  and  dragged  him  away  up  the  slippery 
cobbled  street. 

The  worst  of  it  was  that  I had  to  pass  the  “ Turk’s  ” shop  again  to 
reach  the  hotel.  The  good  fellow  was  just  locking  up  to  come  home 
and  entertain  me,  and  he  pounced  upon  me  at  once,  quite  literally, 
throwing  his  arms  about  me  and  attempting  to  drag  me  off  bodily, 
while  Huancavelica  stared  open-mouthed  upon  us  from  every  door- 
way. But  I had  set  my  heart  on  the  repose  of  a room  of  my  own. 
Beating  off  the  affectionate  “ Turk  ” with  one  hand,  and  struggling  in 
vain  to  keep  Chusquito  off  the  sidewalk  and  out  of  each  succeeding 
shop  with  the  other,  I gradually  worked  my  way  forward,  leaving  my 
would-be  host  on  the  verge  of  tears,  and  gained  at  last  the  “ Saenz- 
Peha  Hotel.”  It  was  a dislocated  little  building  of  long,  long,  ago, 
wrapped  like  a carelessly  flung  garment  around  a tiny  patio,  its  most 
conspicuous  feature  the  city  billiard-room  in  which  a half-dozen  youths 
of  sporting  proclivities  were  gathered  — at  least,  until  they  caught  sight 
of  us.  Summoned  from  the  mysterious  interior,  the  respectful  and 
astonished  poncho-clad  proprietor  went  in  quest  of  a key,  and  un- 
locked the  padlock  of  one  of  three  small  doors  tucked  away  in  as  many 

355 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


corners  of  the  patio  — doors  made  of  battered  drygoods  boxes  with  the 
lettering  still  upon  them,  so  precious  is  lumber  in  these  treeless  heights 
— explaining  that  the  other  two  rooms  were  “ ocupados  ” — perhaps 
with  empty  bottles  or  guinea-pigs,  certainly  not  with  guests. 

The  chamber  assigned  me  awoke  my  gratitude.  It  was,  to  be  sure, 
so  small  that  I could  touch  both  walls  at  once,  windowless  and  doorless, 
except  for  the  narrow  opening  by  which  I squeezed  in,  gloomy  and 
chill,  after  the  fashion  of  adobe  mountain  rooms  long  closed ; but  it  was 
furnished,  even  to  a bed  with  real  springs.  Barely  had  I carried  my 
traps  inside,  when  there  burst  into  the  patio  another  “ Turk,”  who  as- 
serted in  gestureful  Spanish  that  he  was  the  real  Solomon  Atala  to 
whom  I belonged  during  my  stay  in  Huancavelica,  the  other  being 
merely  his  brother,  who  had  opened  the  letter  in  the  brotherly  way  of 
Palestinians.  He,  too,  was  a believer  in  forcible  hospitality,  and  the 
hotel  proprietor  looked  on  in  helpless  dismay  at  what  promised  to  be  a 
successful  attempt  to  carry  off  his  only  guest  in  — the  patron  saint  of 
hoteleros  knows  how  long.  A bed  with  springs,  in  a room  by  myself, 
however,  was  not  a luxury  to  be  given  up  for  the  mere  danger  of  mak- 
ing a few  Turkish  enemies,  and  in  the  end  the  engaging  Syrian,  seeing 
no  way  out  of  it,  admitted  with  bad  grace  that,  as  I already  had  my 
possessions  scattered  about  the  hotel  room,  it  would  be  unfair  to 
the  proprietor  not  to  retain  it.  I should  remain  where  I was  until 
morning,  when  we  would  talk  the  matter  over.  He  agreed  under  pro- 
test, and  at  length  gloomily  took  his  departure. 

This  “ friend  in  town  ” is  the  bugbear  of  hotel-keepers,  or  would-be 
keepers,  in  the  Andes.  The  Arabian  notion  of  hospitality,  inherited 
from  the  Moors  and  mixed  perhaps  with  the  traditions  of  Inca  days, 
with  their  free  and  public  tambos  along  all  the  highways  of  the  empire, 
still  holds  sway,  at  least  superficially.  The  Peruvian  will  all  his  life 
put  up  with  begging  lodging,  food,  and  fodder  on  his  travels,  often 
going  without  them  entirely,  rather  than  help  support  a hotel,  con- 
sidering it  a sign  of  high  rank  to  be  housed  by  an  outwardly  delighted 
acquaintance,  and  thus  cheat  the  struggling  hotelero  out  of  a livelihood. 

Having  led  Chusquito  to  the  river  to  drink  and  heaped  before  him 
half  of  a five-cent  bundle  of  alcazer — green  barley,  for  grain  does  not 
ripen  at  this  altitude  — and  locked  the  rest  inside  my  chamber,  I stalked 
in  solitary  grandeur  through  the  gaping  billiard-players  to  the  dining- 
room, and  sat  down  at  the  end  of  a long  oil-clothed  table  near  a small 
opening  in  the  wall  that  looked  like  an  enlarged  rat-hole.  The  poncho- 
clad  proprietor  proceeded  with  fitting  gravity  to  serve  me  a thoroughly 

356 


“ Chusquito”  descending  one  of  the  few  remnants  of  A detail  of  the  market  of  Huancayo,  with  a bit  of  pottery 

the  old  Inca  highway  I found  from  Quito  to  Cuzco  like  that  of  the  days  of  the  Incas 


OVERLAND  TOWARD  CUZCO 


Peruvian  meal,  of  which  the  chief  ingredient  was  a churrasco,  or  steak, 
not  of  beef,  as  I at  first  fancied,  but  of  llama,  a favorite  Huancavelican 
dish  which  would  not  exactly  win  the  unstinted  praise  of  an  epicure. 
Between  each  course  he  repaired  to  the  kitchen  in  a corner  of  the  barn- 
yard to  poke  the  various  dishes  through  the  hole  in  the  wall,  and  then 
reappeared  within  to  serve  them.  It  may  have  been  a long  time  since 
he  had  been  honored  with  a guest,  but  he  had  not  forgotten  the  proper 
form  of  service.  After  each  trip  he  balanced  on  alternate  legs,  staring 
at  me  silently,  until  at  last  his  tongue  refused  longer  to  obey  his  will, 
when  he  burst  out  tremulously  :. 

“ Uste‘ — ah  — senor,  es  andarin,  no  ? ” 

“ Not  at  all,”  I replied,  to  his  patent  disappointment.  “ You  see  I 
have  n’t  a single  medal  on  my  chest.” 

“Ah,  then  you  travel  to  sell  something;  jewelry  perhaps,  like  all 
franceses  ? ” 

Squier,  traveling  through  the  Andes  a half-century  ago,  found  that 
“ in  the  Sierra  all  foreigners  are  supposed  to  be  French  in  nationality 
and  peddlers  of  jewelry  by  profession,”  and  conditions  have  changed 
little  to  this  day.  The  landlord-waiter  was  openly  incredulous  of  my 
second  denial,  but  once  the  sluice-gates  of  his  curiosity  had  been  opened, 
the  flow  of  words  swamped  even  the  service,  and  the  soup  had  long 
since  become  a memory  of  the  dim  past  before  he  poked  the  pastre  of 
melted  panela  through  to  himself.  I made  my  escape  at  last,  and  went 
to  sit  on  the  wooden  sofa  in  the  billiard-room,  as  the  only  place  in  town 
with  fight  enough  to  see  oneself  by ; but  my  distinguished  presence  was 
so  evidently  the  cause  of  bad  shots  that  gradually  turned  the  players 
bitterly  resentful,  and  the  atmosphere  was  so  decidedly  wintry,  that  I 
soon  “ hit  the  hay  ” — quite  literally,  for  such  proved  to  be  the  filling  of 
the  outwardly  luxurious-looking  mattress. 

I had  barely  ventured  into  the  street  next  morning  when  I was 
dragged  into  the  shop  of  the  two  Palestinians.  After  a bitter  and 
noisy  struggle  we  patched  up  a truce  as  follows : Since  I was  already 

enstalled  there,  I was  to  keep  my  room  at  the  hotel,  but  it  was  at  their 
house  that  I must  take  breakfast  and  dinner.  . . . 

“ And  desayuno ! ” cried  the  “ Turks  ” as  one  man,  “ You  must  also 
come  and  take  breakfast  with  us.  If  you  like  eggs,  or  steak,  or  pickled 
pigs’  feet,  or  . . . Very  well,  even  if  you  take  only  coffee  and  bread, 
like  a Peruvian.  . . .” 

Though  it  was  barely  ten  of  a brilliant  Sunday  morning,  the 
Andean  merchant’s  richest  hour,  they  shut  up  shop,  in  spite  of  the  mild 

357 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


protests  of  a dozen  ponchoed  shoppers,  and  led  the  way  to  their  ram- 
bling residence.  A meal  heavy  with  meat  was  enlivened  with  an  ex- 
cellent wine  that  could  have  cost  little  less  than  a small  fortune  at  this 
altitude.  The  manners  of  the  household  recalled  Palestine.  We 
three  men  sat  at  table  with  our  hats  on,  in  Arabic  as  well  as  Andean 
fashion,  while  the  women  hovered  more  or  less  inconspicuously  in  the 
background.  A dozen  small  children  of  both  sexes  crawled  and 
climbed  and  sprawled  and  displayed  their  plump,  unwashed  nakedness 
on,  around,  and  under  the  table,  drinking  wine  and  swearing  like 
arrieros  in  both  Spanish  and  Quichua.  They  were  being  brought  up 
in  the  Palestinian,  which  is  to  some  extent  the  Latin-American,  fashion 
that  forbade  coercion,  and  were  heartily  laughed  at  and  dubbed  “ cute  ” 
whenever  they  did  anything  particularly  naughty  or  disobedient. 

The  two  Syrians,  as  we  would  call  them,  or  “ Turks,”  as  their  fel- 
low-countrymen are  known  through  all  South  America,  had  left  Beth- 
lehem some  eight  years  before.  They  announced  themselves  “ Chris- 
tians,” which  meant  merely  that  they  were  not  Mohammedans ; though, 
as  behooves  ambitious  merchants,  they  diplomatically  avoided  any  re- 
ligious controversy  with  their  clients.  For  several  years  they  had  ped- 
dled on  foot  over  all  the  accessible  portion  of  central  Peru,  descending 
even  into  the  montana,  or  great  hot  lands  to  the  east,  the  abode  of  rub- 
ber, fever,  and  “ wild  ” Indians.  Bit  by  bit  they  had  established  shops 
in  various  towns,  until  they  had  come  to  be  among  the  most  important 
merchants  of  the  region,  with  headquarters  in  Huancavelica  and 
branches  in  charge  of  more  youthful  fellow-countrymen  in  the  chief 
centers  of  population  of  the  department.  Their  success  was  typical  of 
thousands  of  men  of  their  race  throughout  the  southern  continent.  For 
the  native,  equally  scanty  of  initiative,  industry,  and  the  inclination  to 
risk  his  capital,  is  at  best  an  ineffective  competitor  of  this  tireless  race 
of  born  shopkeepers.  Of  productive  labor,  great  as  is  the  call  for  it  in 
this  backward  Andean  land,  the  “Turk”  brings  nothing.  Nor  is  his 
example  likely  to  better  the  personal  habits  of  the  native  population, 
though  it  may  breed  more  effective  “ business  methods,”  and  even  a 
higher  grade  of  commercial  honesty  — to  say  nothing  of  hospitality. 
It  is  not  by  such  immigration,  however,  that  the  dormant  continent  will 
be  rejuvenated. 

My  irrepressible  hosts  cherished  a hazy  dream  of  some  day  return- 
ing to  Palestine  with  their  fortune.  Yet  their  children  spoke  not  a 
word  of  the  Arabic  that  still  served  for  most  of  the  intercourse  between 
the  men  and  their  slatternly  wives.  The  brothers  themselves  were 

358 


OVERLAND  TOWARD  CUZCO 


fluent,  not  only  in  Spanish,  but  in  Quichua.  The  throaty  dialect  of  the 
aboriginals  has  much  in  common  with  the  no  less  guttural  Arabic;  as 
the  similarity  of  customs  and  point  of  view  makes  the  race  particularly 
adaptable  to  Peruvian  surroundings.  No  other  foreigner  fits  better 
into  the  life  of  the  Andes,  and  it  is  not  strange  that  the  Syrian  has 
most  effectively  invaded  Andean  commerce.  Even  the  Chinaman,  who 
quickly  disappears  as  the  traveler  turns  his  back  on  Lima,  has  found  it 
impossible  to  compete  with  these  more  western  Orientals. 

It  is  unfortunate  that  the  traveler  given  to  reporting  his  wanderings 
cannot  have  his  mind  erased  every  little  while,  like  a slate;  for  so 
quickly  do  the  sights  and  sounds  of  a strange  country  sink  to  the  com- 
monplace that  many  things  that  might  delight  the  stay-at-home  pass 
unnoticed.  Thus  an  American  untouched  with  the  contempt  of  fa- 
miliarity, suddenly  set  down  in  Huancavelica,  would  no  doubt  find  it 
abounding  with  “local  color.”  Hays,  who  journeyed  overland  to 
Cuzco  some  months  before  me,  enthusiastically  proclaimed  it  “ the  most 
picturesque  town  in  South  America.”  But  to  one  who  had  followed 
the  Andes  step  by  step  it  was  rather  monotonously  like  any  other  town 
of  the  Sierra,  its  customs  varying  only  in  a few  minor  details  from 
those  that  had  long  since  grown  familiar.  By  night  it  lies  silent  and 
dead  under  its  cold  stars.  Dawn  finds  the  fountain  in  its  central 
“ Plaza  de  la  Independence  ” bearded  with  icicles,  and  no  clock  or 
sun-dial  could  give  the  hour  more  exactly  than  the  regularity  with 
which  these  drip  away  to  nothing  in  the  late  morning.  For  the  sun 
falls  tardily  on  Huancavelica,  having  first  to  climb  the  mountain  ram- 
part that  shuts  it  in  on  the  east.  The  town  wisely  remains  in  bed 
until  the  god  of  the  Incas  has  asserted  his  brilliant,  undisputed  sway, 
and  my  road-habit  of  rising  at  daybreak  gave  me  the  sensation  of 
strolling  through  a city  from  which  the  entire  populace  had  fled.  In- 
deed, the  only  really  comfortable  place  in  town  was  in  bed.  All  day 
long  one  shivered  in  the  shade  or  burned  in  the  sun.  In  my  dank, 
dungeon  cell  it  was  distinctly  too  dark,  cold,  and  gloomy  to  read  or 
write ; on  the  red  benches  of  the  plaza  the  glare  of  the  molten  disk 
above  was  too  brilliant  to  endure,  even  when  some  unsophisticated  old 
native  did  not  join  me  and  remain  deaf  to  all  hints  that  even  a traveler 
has  his  work  to  do.  I soon  formed  the  habit  of  taking  daily  possession 
of  the  ancient  band-stand  facing  the  white  “ cathedral.”  Here  was  a 
bench  on  which  I could,  by  constant  manipulation,  keep  myself  in  the 
sun  and  my  note-book  in  the  shade ; and  as  it  was  apparently  against 
the  rules  or  contrary  to  costumbre  for  a native  to  occupy  the  struc- 

359 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


ture,  I sat  here  hour  after  hour  in  solitary  glory,  flanked  by  the  four 
staring  sides  of  the  plaza.  The  activity  of  an  Andean  town  can  gen- 
erally be  gaged  by  its  plaza,  and  by  that  token  Huancavelica  was  in- 
active indeed.  Evidently  no  industry  more  important  than  a soup- 
kettle  could  be  run  by  natives,  and  foreigners  were  rare.  Charcoal 
braziers,  or  the  three-stone,  fagot-fires  at  the  backs  of  huts,  where 
crouched  old  women  almost  too  feeble  to  drive  off  the  curs  that 
swarmed  around  the  steaming  earthen  calabashes,  represented  the 
ordinary  cooking  processes,  the  fires  being  now  and  then  given  new 
life  with  a bamboo,  or  woven-weed  fan.  So  bucolic  was  the  populace 
that  every  9troll  through  the  streets  brought  a score  of  inquiries  as 
to  what  I was  selling,  many  regarding  even  my  kodak  as  a sale-kit 
and  inviting  me  to  enter,  while  children  and  grown-ups  alike  hastened 
to  summon  the  rest  of  the  family  as  often  as  I hove  in  sight. 

In  common  with  all  Latins,  the  people  are  lovers  of  perpetual  noise, 
and  have  no  conception  of  our  Anglo-Saxon  desire  to  be  occasionally 
let  alone.  Though  the  annoyances  were  always  innocent,  rather  than 
intentional,  I could  not  pause  for  a moment  that  I did  not  have  a sur- 
rounding mob,  and  there  was  almost  constantly  a procession  of  boys, 
and  even  those  old  enough  to  know  better,  at  my  heels.  If  I paused 
to  look  at  an  old  carved  corner-stone  or  an  ancient  balcony,  necks  were 
craned  in  wonder  as  to  what  on  earth  an  estranjero  from  the  great 
outside  world  could  find  of  interest  in  the  lifelong  sights  of  their 
drowsy  capital.  Yet  there  was  a peculiar  repose  and  quiet  about  the 
place,  as  if  it  were  literally  shut  off  by  its  grim  mountain-walls  from 
all  the  troubles  of  the  great  world.  Shopkeepers  locked  up  and  went 
home  to  play  or  sleep  whenever  the  whim  struck  them.  Though  a de- 
partment capital,  there  was  not  a physician  in  town,  nor  any  open  evi- 
dence of  a drug-store ; and  while  there  was  no  doubt  some  advantage 
in  this  state  of  affairs,  the  death-rate  from  dysentery  and  pneumonia 
was  high.  An  awkward,  slow-minded,  mountain  people,  they  had  not 
even  the  usual  mountaineer  virtue  of  shyness,  being  as  forward  in 
their  manner  as  Hebrews.  I was  never  out  of  sight  of  at  least  one 
“ authority,”  a ragged  Indian  from  some  neighboring  hamlet  up  among 
the  higher  ranges,  clinging  jealously  to  his  black  silver-mounted  cane 
of  office.  Pacos  and  llamas  could  be  made  out,  tiny  as  mice,  feeding 
on  the  perpendicular  crags  sheer  above  the  town,  among  the  abrupt 
splintered  masses  of  rock  that  cut  all  the  surrounding  sky-line  sharply 
with  their  jagged  crests. 

As  I was  strolling  about  town  the  day  after  my  arrival,  a soldier 

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OVERLAND  TOWARD  CUZCO 


again  came  running  after  me  to  say  that  the  prefect  himself  desired 
me  to  report  and  explain  myself.  I handed  the  menial  my  card,  and 
heard  no  more  of  the  matter.  The  printed  name  on  a bit  of  cardboard 
is  proof  sufficient  of  aristocracy  in  most  of  South  America.  Burglars 
and  highwaymen  contemplating  entrance  into  that  field  of  activities 
would  do  well  to  provide  themselves  with  a plentiful  supply  of  visiting 
cards,  the  larger  and  more  imposing  the  better.  Later  on,  when  I 
called  on  the  department  ruler  at  my  own  volition  and  with  the  dignity 
befitting  an  envoy  from  the  outside  world,  a man  was  assigned  to 
attend  me  on  any  excursions  I chose  to  make  in  or  about  the  town. 

The  origin  of  the  name  of  Huancavelica  is  curious.  There  was,  it 
seems,  no  town  here  at  the  time  of  the  Conquest.  To  the  Incas  this 
flat  enclosed  plain  with  its  clear  little  river  offered  too  fine  an  oppor- 
tunity for  their  enemies  to  roll  rocks  down  upon  them  from  the  tower- 
ing heights  above.  Centuries  ago  there  settled  on  the  spot  an  Indian 
of  the  Huanca  tribe,  inhabiting  the  great  valley  between  Jauja  and 
Huancayo.  He  died  young,  and  for  long  years  his  wife  dwelt  alone 
in  the  only  hut  in  this  capacious  mountain-pocket.  Her  name  was 
Isabel,  which  in  South  America  becomes  familiarly  or  affectionately, 
“ Velica.”  Her  hut  was  a sort  of  tambo,  where  a bit  of  corn  or  eggs 
might  occasionally  be  had,  or  at  least  pasture  for  pack-animals  and 
shelter  from  the  paramo  winds.  Hence  travelers  through  the  region, 
asked  where  they  would  spend  the  night,  announced : “ Voy  llegar 

donde  la  Huanca  Velica.” 

Then  it  was  discovered  that  the  grim,  treeless  mountains  piled  into 
the  sky  about  the  little  valley  were  rich  in  quicksilver,  and  a mining 
town  built  itself  up  about  the  hut  of  Isabel,  the  Huanca.  For  centu- 
ries the  great  Santa  Barbara  mine  high  above  the  town,  and  several 
smaller  workings  in  the  vicinity,  yielded  the  mercury  used  in  Potos-i 
and  in  all  the  mines  of  Peru,  High  or  Low,  which  was  brought  from 
Huancavelica  on  the  backs  of  llamas.  Then,  as  more  scientific  methods 
came  into  vogue,  the  miners  turned  to  California  for  their  supply,  until 
to-day  the  Mercury  Queen  is  but  an  echo  of  her  former  greatness,  and 
the  open  shafts  of  her  cinnibar  mines,  which  rumor  has  it  left  several 
of  the  surrounding  ranges  great  hollow  caverns,  stand  silent  and  de- 
serted. It  is  this  failure  to  keep  up  with  modern  times  that  has  left 
Huancavelica  -one  of  the  most  “ picturesque  ” department  capitals,  with 
poverty  her  chief  handmaid.  Lack  of  transportation  is  her  principal 
drawback.  The  very  town  itself  is  said  to  sit  on  top  of  great  deposits 
of  quicksilver.  Workmen,  digging  for  the  foundation  of  a new  build- 

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VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


ing  on  a corner  of  the  plaza  during  my  sojourn,  found  pure-liquid 
mercury  bubbling  up  out  of  the  ground.  Modern  miners,  however, 
refuse  to  operate  where  only  the  slow  and  unreliable  llama  must  be 
depended  on  for  transportation,  and  only  when  the  long-promised 
railroad  arrives,  will  Huancavelica  come  into  her  own  again. 

The  chief  point  of  interest  was  the  famous  old  mercury  mine  of 
Santa  Barbara.  Strangely  enough,  the  cicerone  appeared  within  an 
hour  of  the  daylight  time  set,  though  without  breakfast,  and  shared 
with  me  the  results  of  my  own  rum-burning  handicraft.  A round- 
about, but  exceedingly  steep  road,  on  which  we  panted  audibly  in  spite 
of  frequent  halts  for  breath,  brought  us  to  our  goal  far  above  the  town. 
Near  a silent,  cold,  Indian  hamlet,  with  an  aged  Spanish  church  facing 
its  dreary  plaza,  was  the  ruin  of  a cut-stone  smelting-works  of  colonial 
days,  and  behind  it  the  imposing  arched  entrance  to  the  enormous 
caverns  said  to  undermine  all  the  neighboring  range.  Above  this  was  a 
large  Spanish  coat-of-arms  cut  in  stone,  with  the  information  that  the 
arch  had  been  constructed  by  General  Fulano  in  1707 ; and  the  weather- 
defaced  relief  of  a saint  holding  a child.  The  silence  of  long  aban- 
donment brooded  over  all  the  scene.  We  lighted  the  medieval  oil-lamp 
borrowed  from  the  hotel,  and  disappeared  within.  The  tunnel  that  led 
straight  into  the  mountainside  was  large  enough,  if  not  for  a railway 
train,  at  least  for  a horseman  to  have  ridden  in  comfortably,  its  floor 
easily  as  good  a road  as  the  average  Peruvian  one  outside.  Here  and 
there  we  crawled  over  a heap  of  stones  and  earth  where  a part  of  the 
wall  had  fallen,  and  at  382  paces  from  the  mouth  were  halted  by  a 
cave-in  that  had  choked  up  the  entire  tunnel.  My  companion  had 
assured  me  that  the  spirits  of  ancient  Spaniards  and  their  Indian  vic- 
tims, lying  in  wait  for  unwary  moderns,  made  our  entrance  perilous 
in  the  extreme,  and,  once  permission  was  given,  lost  no  time  in  retreat- 
ing. 

From  the  exit  we  went  faldcando  (skirting)  the  mountain  to  the  an- 
cient mining  village  of  Chaclatacana,  about  which,  and  scattered  over 
all  the  vicinity,  were  the  evidences  of  little  mines  the  Indians  had  dug 
on  their  own  account.  The  cinebrio  deposits  of  the  region  were  first 
disclosed  to  the  Spaniards  in  1566,  by  the  custom  of  the  aboriginals  of 
painting  their  faces  with  it.  My  guide  asserted  that  condors  were 
numerous,  and  often  dangerous  to  the  eyes  of  men  wandering  over 
these  lofty  heights;  but  it  was  my  luck  not  to  catch  sight  of  one  of  those 
giant  birds  of  the  Andes.  I was  rewarded,  however,  for  taking  the 
“ short-cut  ” that  proved  longer  and  more  laborious  than  the  road,  by  a 

362 


OVERLAND  TOWARD  CUZCO 


bird’s  eye  view  of  Huancavelica,  so  directly  below  us  that  we  could 
have  tossed  our  hats  into  the  central  plaza.  Here,  too,  among  the  split 
and  jagged  rock-crags  we  stumbled  upon  a colony  of  viscachas, — 
“ biscachos  ” my  companion  called  them  — almost  the  only  quadruped, 
besides  the  guinea-pig  and  the  llama  family,  indigenous  to  the  Peru- 
vian highlands.  The  creature  is  sometimes  dubbed  the  “ squirrel  of 
the  Andes,”  but  its  size  was  more  nearly  that  of  the  rabbit,  its  prominent 
tail  and  means  of  locomotion  suggestive  of  some  diminutive  species  of 
the  kangaroo,  its  color  not  unlike  that  of  our  prairie  dog,  which  it  re- 
sembled somewhat  also  in  its  manner  of  dodging  in  and  out  among  the 
rocks  and  crags,  as  if  inviting  us  to  a game  of  “ hide  and  seek.”  Ac- 
cording to  my  attendant,  the  meat  of  the  animal  is  even  more  succu- 
lent than  llama-flesh,  providing  the  tail  is  cut  off  at  the  moment  of 
killing. 

But  for  the  unkindness  of  fate  there  would  have  been  a gala  bull- 
fight in  Huancavelica  on  the  Sunday  of  my  stay.  The  one  negro  I 
had  seen  shivering  about  town  turned  out  to  be  a torero,  imported  — 
chiefly  at  his  own  expense  — from  Lima  for  the  occasion.  The  corral 
behind  the  rambling  dwelling  of  my  hosts  had  been  turned  into  a 
“ ring,”  a square  one,  to  be  sure,  laboriously  fenced  with  poles  tied 
with  bark  and  cords  to  upright  stakes.  But  on  Saturday  afternoon, 
just  as  the  town  was  rubbing  its  hands  together  at  the  prospect  of  a 
half-forgotten  entertainment,  the  one  bull  that  was  to  have  furnished 
it  sprang  through  the  barrier  and  over  the  low  wall  to  the  sunken 
street  below,  fifteen  feet  if  it  was  an  inch,  and  instead  of  dying  on  the 
spot,  was  last  seen  making  record  time  for  his  mountain  pasture. 

The  irrepressible  “Turks”  were  wellnigh  obnoxious  in  their  hos- 
pitality. The  most  baggage-abhoring  of  travelers  acquires  gradually 
and  unconsciously  a new  point  of  view  with  respect  to  his  pack  when 
he  is  no  longer  forced  to  burden  his  own  shoulders  with  it,  and  articles 
that  have  hitherto  seemed  only  useless  weight  take  on  the  aspect  of 
necessities.  But  after  they  had  “ sold  ” me  an  enamel  cup  and  a roll 
of  cotton-flannel  for  “ Lusslappen,”  the  Syrians  refused  vociferously  to 
accept  payment.  When  I caught  sight  of  a mouth-organ  that  might 
have  served  to  while  away  the  tramp  across  the  lonely  uninhabited 
world  ahead,  my  mere  glance  at  it  caused  Jose  to  drop  it  into  my 
pocket  when  I was  off  my  guard.  A wordy  battle  ended  with  his  ac- 
ceptance of  a sol,  which  he  swore  was  the  wholesale  price  of  an  instru- 
ment marked  to  retail  for  five  times  that  amount ; but  it  cost  me  eternal 
vigilance  to  keep  now  one,  now  the  other  brother  from  surreptitiously 

363 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


returning  the  coin.  There  was  nothing  left  but  to  curtail  my  pur- 
chases. To  choose  from  their  stock  was  to  have  charity  thrust  upon 
me ; to  buy  of  their  rivals  would  have  been  the  height  of  insults,  and 
would  quickly  have  published  to  all  the  town  their  lack  of  hospitality,  or 
my  ingratitude.  My  last  day  with  them  the  firm  of  Atala  Hermanos 
spent  in  writing  me  letters  of  introduction  to  all  their  countrymen  from 
Huancavelica  to  Cape  Horn,  and  when  I sneaked  into  their  patio  at 
dawn  next  morning,  bent  on  abducting  Chusquito  unseen,  the  entire 
household  was  already  waiting  to  drag  me  in  to  an  extraordinary 
breakfast.  Not  satisfied  with  that,  they  forced  upon  me  a boiled  leg- 
of-mutton  and  several  other  delicacies,  among  them  a dozen  raw  eggs 
which,  tied  in  a handkerchief  on  Chusquito’s  back,  broke  one  by  one 
with  his  jolting  gait  and  ran  in  yellow  streams  down  the  rubber  poncho 
that  covered  the  pack. 

All  Huancavelica  united  in  attempting  to  force  a guide  upon  me, 
asserting  that  even  “ hijos  del  lugar  ” frequently  lost  themselves  on  the 
trackless  puna  beyond.  I smiled  indulgently  at  what  had  long  since 
become  a threadbare  prophesy,  but  had  occasion  to  recall  it  before 
the  day  was  done.  The  way  mounted  steadily  all  the  morning,  un- 
covering a vast  yellow-brown  world  that  stretched  forever  before  me. 
In  the  early  hours  it  was  scantily  inhabited  by  wild,  weather-faded 
shepherds  watching  over  flocks  of  llamas,  pacos,  or  sheep,  and  leisurely 
busy  turning  wool  into  yarn  on  their  crude  spindles,  an  occupation  that 
gave  the  men  a curiously  effeminate  air,  out  of  all  keeping  with  their 
rough  exterior.  These  chary  fellows  took  good  care  that  we  should 
not  come  within  shouting  distance  of  them,  and  even  the  rare  travelers 
and  llama  drivers  made  wide  circuits  to  avoid  us,  as  if  fearful  of  their 
defenselessness  on  this  bleak,  shelterless  top  of  the  world.  If  taken 
unaware  in  some  fold  of  the  earth,  they  muttered  some  stupidity  in 
the  Quichua  slang  dialect  of  the  region,  and  sped  away  like  startled 
hares.  Unable  to  make  inquiries,  I could  only  trust  to  chance,  com- 
pass, and  the  instinct  that  develops  with  long  Andean  travel.  For  on 
these  broad  mountain-tops  the  traveler  is  by  no  means  master  of  the 
situation,  and  to  guess  wrong  between  several  at  best  faintly  marked 
paths  may  be  to  go  hopelessly  astray,  and  come  out  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  Andes  from  that  toward  which  one  is  headed.  For  long  stretches 
the  dreary  paramo  showed  no  sign  whatever  of  travel,  though  here 
and  there  the  droppings  of  llamas  gave  the  route  a more  or  less  fixed 
direction.  A jolly,  coca-chewing  old  Indian,  whom  I came  upon  in 
the  afternoon  plodding  patiently  behind  his  haughty  train,  had  seen 

364 


Huancavelica,  one  of  the  most  picturesque  and  least-visited  provincial  capitals  of  Peru,  is  completely  boxed  in  by  grim,  rocky 
mountain  walls  noted  for  their  deposits  of  mercury.  The  city  itself  is  more  than  two  miles  above  sea-level 


OVERLAND  TOWARD  CUZCO 


enough  of  the  world  to  have  lost  some  of  his  fear  of  white  men  and 
assured  me  I was  still  on  the  right  road.  But  he  must  have  been  mis- 
taken, or  else  I guessed  wrong  at  the  next  opportunity,  for  the  bit  of 
trail  that  had  grown  up  under  my  feet  split  irreconcilably  and  left,  at 
the  hour  when  I should  have  come  upon  an  hacienda  reputed  hospitable 
to  travelers,  only  the  rolling,  trackless,  yellow  puna  stretching  away  on 
every  hand. 

A raging  thunder-storm  of  rain  and  hail,  under  which  the  vast  land 
and  skyscape  turned  dark  as  night,  soon  broke  upon  us.  I had  strug- 
gled a long  distance  through  the  storm,  when  I faintly  made  out  a 
little  cluster  of  huts  some  distance  to  the  right  in  a wrinkle  of  the 
pampa.  After  I had  overcome  my  own  disinclination  to  go  out  of  my 
way  to  seek  lodging,  there  was  needed  a laborious  argument  to  bring 
my  companion  to  my  way  of  thinking.  For  Chusquito  would  have 
none  of  your  side  trips.  The  truth  is  I had  been  somewhat  deceived 
and  disappointed  in  the  disposition  of  my  chosen  fellow-adventurer. 
As  long  as  the  road  lay  straight  and  undoubtedly  before  us,  he  was  an 
ideal  companion,  never  breaking  the  thread  of  my  reflections  by  calling 
attention  to  the  scenery,  nor  otherwise  making  himself  humanly  ob- 
noxious. But  in  temperament  he  might  best  be  likened  to  a cat,  ac- 
cepting all  favors  and  friendly  overtures  with  a complacent  aloofness 
and  matter-of-course  manner  that  resembled  ingratitude,  refusing  to  be 
won  over,  even  by  carresses,  to  the  faintest  expression  of  a reciprocal 
affection.  Moreover,  he  had  a will,  not  to  say  a wilfulness,  of  his  own 
that  is  enimical  to  all  genuine  companionship  on  the  road,  and  a respect 
for  costumbre  that  betrayed  his  Latin-American  training.  I felt  no 
compunction  in  having  recourse  to  brute  force  in  a dispute  under  such 
circumstances  as  then  faced  us,  however,  and  we  soon  gained  the  only 
visible  shelter. 

On  a cold,  cheerless  spot,  almost  devoid  of  even  the  vegetation  of 
high  pampas,  I found  five  miserable  human  kennels  of  loosely  laid 
stones  and  ichu  grass,  in  charge  of  several  gaunt,  savage,  yet  cowardly 
curs,  and  an  Indian  boy  speaking  only  monosyllabic  Quichua.  All  the 
huts,  except  a beehive-shaped  structure  that  served  as  kitchen,  had 
huge  native  padlocks  on  the  doors.  Choked  with  thirst,  in  tantalizing 
contrast  to  my  dripping  garments  and  the  raging  storm,  I called  for 
water. 

“ Manam  cancha,”  murmured  the  boy  dully,  using  the  Quichua  ver- 
sion of  that  stereotyped  Andean  falsehood,  “ There  is  none.” 

“ Yacu!  ” I shouted,  jokingly  laying  a hand  on  my  revolver. 

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VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


He  slunk  away,  and  picked  up  a battered  cup  behind  one  of  the  huts. 
Wiping  this  on  his  lifelong  sleeve,  he  scraped  the  bottom  of  a huge 
earthen  jar  that  leaned  awry,  in  what  would  have  needed  only  a fence 
to  be  a barnyard,  at  an  angle  that  enabled  the  dogs  to  help  themselves  at 
the  same  source,  and  presented  the  half-filled  vessel  to  me.  There  was 
no  second  choice  in  the  matter,  for  this  region,  untold  miles  above  sea- 
level,  had  no  other  supply  of  water  than  the  rain  that  chanced  to  drop 
into  the  leaning  cantaros.  Fortunately  the  taste  bore  little  evidence  of 
what  the  appearance  suggested.  I made  a round  of  the  huts,  resolved 
to  spend  the  night  there,  even  if  I had  to  break  into  one  of  the  build- 
ings. 

“ Huasi-munuy ! ” I cried,  patching  my  Quichua  together  after  my 
own  fashion,  and  pointing  to  one  of  the  padlocks. 

“ Manam  cancha,”  repeated  the  huarma  in  the  same  dull  monotone. 
I held  out  what  would  have  seemed  a fortune  of  small  coins  to  a coun- 
try boy  of  other  lands,  but  he  shook  his  head  doggedly,  without  a gleam 
of  interest,  casting  a half-frightened  glance  at  my  weapon.  An  older 
youth,  who  had  appeared  noiselessly  from  somewhere,  treated  the  offer 
of  money  with  the  same  indifference  and  settled  down  to  a silent  at- 
tempt to  drive  me  off,  in  spite  of  the  storm  and  the  night  that  was 
closing  in.  It  was  then  that  I thought  of  the  sack  I had  filled  in  the 
market  of  Huancayo.  At  the  magic  word  “ coca  ” the  pair  awoke 
to  a new  interest  in  life.  Each  snatched  off  his  hat  to  receive  a handful 
of  leaves,  mumbling  a “ Gracias,  tayta-tayta,”  and  the  older  youth 
ordered  the  other  to  clear  away  a miscellaneous  assortment  of  junk, 
bundles  of  old  sheepskins,  and  a heap  of  llama-droppings  gathered  for 
fuel,  from  one  end  of  the  hut  “ porch  ” under  the  edge  of  which  I was 
seated.  As  he  worked,  there  fell  from  somewhere  under  the  projecting 
eaves  the  corpse  of  a tiny,  black  pig  that  had  quite  evidently  died  a 
natural  death,  but  which  the  family  just  as  evidently  proposed  to  eat, 
for  the  boy  carried  it  off  to  a safer  spot,  plainly  doubting  my  honesty. 
In  a corner  lay  two  bundles  of  ichu  grass.  I tossed  one  to  Chusquito, 
standing  dejected  and  disgusted  beside  me,  and  spread  out  the  other 
as  a mattress.  The  youth  made  no  protest,  but  shook  his  head  at  the 
real  I offered  in  payment.  A howling  wind  that  even  the  stone  hut 
failed  to  break  made  it  useless  to  attempt  to  set  up  my  cooking  outfit. 
As  I drew  cold  food  from  my  pack,  the  Indians  sat  motionless  as  stone 
statues,  but  watched  with  keen  eyes,  monkey-like,  my  every  move.  I 
shared  the  lunch  with  them,  though  I should  much  have  preferred 
paying  them  in  money  for  their  dubious  hospitality.  It  is  one  of  the 

366 


OVERLAND  TOWARD  CUZCO 


drawbacks  of  Andean  journeying  that  the  traveler  is  expected  to 
share  his  scanty  supplies,  not  merely  with  his  human  companions  of 
the  moment,  but  is  invariably  surrounded  under  such  circumstances 
by  a ravenous  swarm  of  begging  and  thieving  dogs,  pigs,  and  fowls. 
Except  for  a score  of  llamas  lying  in  patrician  aloofness  beyond  the 
huts,  every  living  creature  crowded  round  to  appeal  to  my  generosity 
or  to  catch  me  off  my  guard.  The  Indians  accepted  each  morsel  with 
a murmured  “ Gracias  ” that  plainly  proceeded  from  custom  rather  than 
from  any  real  thankfulness.  Innumerable  experiments,  from  the  Rio 
Grande  southward,  had  demonstrated  that  the  American  aboriginal  has 
not  a trace  of  gratitude  in  his  make-up ; indeed,  the  use  of  the  Spanish 
term  suggests  that  the  native  language  did  not  even  include  a word  for 
thanks. 

The  thirst  that  follows  an  all-day  tramp  outlived  the  available  supply 
of  water,  and  even  the  bottle  of  pisco  I dared  not  bring  to  light  until 
darkness  had  concealed  my  movements  from  the  Indians  could  not  be 
shared  with  Chusquito,  no  doubt  choking  within,  in  spite  of  his  bedrag- 
gled, dripping  flanks.  As  the  storm  died  down,  the  evening  spread 
wonderful  colors  across  this  bleak  upper  world,  bringing  out  in  lilac 
tints,  shading  to  purple  and  then  to  black,  the  saw-toothed  range  bound- 
ing the  horizon  on  the  far  south.  The  night  would  have  been  bitter 
cold  even  inside  one  of  the  huts,  to  say  nothing  of  lying  on  the  earth 
floor  of  the  open,  mud  corredor.  Yet  the  cold  which  my  rubber  poncho 
kept  out  was  no  less  surprising  than  the  heat  which  the  wooly  llama- 
hair  one  kept  in,  and  my  sleep  might  easily  have  been  much  more 
broken  than  it  was. 

During  my  first  doze  there  arrived  an  old  Indian,  evidently  the  head 
of  the  household  that  had  hitherto  kept  itself  successfully  concealed. 
He  was  somewhat  the  worse  for  fiery  waters  and,  being  apprized  of  his 
visitor,  set  up  a deal  of  howling  and  shouting  in  Quichua.  Receiv- 
ing no  answer,  he  ventured  to  take  a mild  poke  at  me  with  his  stick.  It 
would  have  been  heroic  indeed  to  have  gotten  out  of  “ bed.”  Instead, 
I turned  loose  a string  of  American  and  Spanish  words  of  high  voltage 
which  experience  had  shown  to  have  a withering  effect  on  his  race. 
Though  he  did  not  understand  them  individually,  he  evidently  grasped 
their  general  import,  for  he  subsided  at  once,  and  retired  to  the  bee- 
hive kitchen,  where  for  a long  time  he  howled  and  yelped,  as  brave  men 
will  in  the  midst  of  their  trembling  and  admiring  families.  Bit  by  bit 
his  women  pacified  him,  in  the  way  women  have,  perhaps  with  more 
pisco  and  coca,  for  I heard  him  laugh  several  times  thereafter,  with  a 

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sound  like  that  of  a choking  cow,  before  anything  resembling  silence 
settled  down  over  the  lofty  mountain-top  world.  Real  silence  is  rare 
in  these  Indian  huts  at  night.  Either  the  lack  of  comfort  they  are  too 
lazy  or  uninitiative  to  remedy,  or  the  chewing  of  coca  keeps  the  miser- 
able inhabitants  half-awake,  and  periods  of  growling  and  grumbling 
are  seldom  far  apart  from  dark  to  dawn. 

I fancy  it  was  midnight,  more  or  less,  when  I became  drowsily  aware 
that  Chusquito,  tied  within  a foot  of  my  head,  was  munching  some 
fodder  I knew  he  did  not  possess;  but  I was  too  nearly  asleep  to  rise 
and  investigate.  The  moon  testified  that  it  was  some  two  hours  later 
when  I was  awakened  to  find  the  head  of  the  household  standing  beside 
me,  his  hand  on  a damaged  roof  and  bellowing  a guttural  stream 
in  which  I caught  several  times  the  words  “ Huasi  micuni  — eating  my 
house.”  This  would  be  an  impoliteness  in  any  land,  and  I bravely 
forced  myself  to  slip  into  my  brogans  and  out  into  the  icy  moonlight. 
Chusquito  had  scalloped  out  the  bangs  of  the  grass  roof  in  a new  style 
that,  to  my  notion,  was  more  fetching  than  the  original.  If  only  the 
Indians  of  the  Andes  were  not  so  stonily  conservative,  my  host  would 
have  thanked  me  for  the  improvement,  instead  of  sputtering  with  rage. 
I tied  the  innocent  culprit  to  a stone-wall  nearby,  which  was  also  an 
unfortunate  choice,  for  I heard  him  knock  down  most  of  that  in  the 
hours  that  remained  before  daylight.  During  the  long  uproar  that 
ensued  in  the  kitchen,  no  doubt  the  old  Indian  told  his  family  many 
times  over  that  had  he  been  at  home  when  I arrived,  I should  not  have 
remained ; but  in  that  he  was  mistaken,  for  it  would  have  taken  a con- 
siderable band  of  South  American  Indians  to  have  denied  me  hospi- 
tality. I lay  down  again  with  my  revolver  and  cartridge-belt  handy 
under  the  edge  of  the  ponchos ; not  that  there  was  any  danger,  but 
because  I do  not  care  to  be  numbered  among  those  who  take  foolish 
chances. 

The  next  I knew  distinctly,  it  was  dawning.  I fed  my  mattress  to 
Chusquito  and  set  up  my  kitchenette  in  the  most  sheltered  corner  of 
the  corredor,  bent  on  concocting  a hot  broth  with  a lump  of  ice  from 
the  bottom  of  a leaning  cantaro.  The  directions  on  my  magic  can 
of  concentrated  soup  asserted  that  “ one  cube  with  hot  water  makes  a 
delicious  bouillon.”  But  this,  experience  had  demonstrated,  should 
be  taken  with  a grain  of  salt  — also  four  other  cubes.  Even  under  the 
lee  of  my  alforjas  the  rum-burner  went  out  at  the  faintest  breath  of 
wind,  but  by  constant  coaxing,  and  at  the  imminent  risk  of  setting  fire 
to  my  possessions,  I managed  even  to  boil  the  two  eggs  that  remained 

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whole,  though  so  great  was  the  altitude  that  with  eight  minutes  of  boil- 
ing they  were  still  soft.  Gravelly  bread  of  Huancavelica,  and  a native 
“ chocolate  ” that  was  really  a pebbly  brown  sugar,  topped  off  a meal 
I might  have  longed  for  in  vain  at  that  hour  in  the  best  hotel  of  Peru. 
Many  an  hour  on  the  road,  during  the  best  part  of  the  day  for  walking, 
that  simple  little  contrivance  gave  me,  when  I should  otherwise  have 
been  waiting  on  the  sleepy  natives  for  breakfast. 

By  the  time  I had  eaten,  the  householder  appeared  in  his  slit  panties 
with  white  buttons  down  the  sides,  and  a fancy  upper  garment  evi- 
dently intended  to  impress  me  with  his  importance.  But  when  he  noted 
by  daylight  with  whom  he  had  to  do,  he  gradually  shrivelled  up  to  a 
half-friendly  smile,  and  accepted  with  a pretence  of  gratitude  a coin 
for  his  forced  hospitality  and  newly  decorated  roof.  A silver-ringed, 
black  cane,  leaning  against  what  Chusquito  had  seen  fit  to  leave  of  the 
stone  wall,  proved  him  one  of  the  “ authorities  ” of  the  region.  Above 
it  stood  a crude  cross  decorated  with  dry  grass,  designed  to  keep  evil 
spirits  — except  those  in  bottles  — away  from  the  cluster  of  huts. 
Either  my  host’s  knowledge  of  the  trail  ahead,  or  his  manner  of  im- 
parting it,  was  extremely  hazy,  and  I dragged  Chusquito  away  across 
the  pampa  in  the  cutting  cold,  but  invigorating  mountain  air,  burdened 
with  the  task  of  finding  ourselves  once  more. 

Within  an  hour  we  were  so  fortunate  as  to  fall  again  upon  a trail, 
where  I could  relinquish  the  tiller  and  drift  into  those  day-dreams  that 
come  upon  the  solitary  traveler  across  these  va§t  Andean  punas.  Snow 
had  fallen  during  the  night,  and  a great  white  immensity,  slightly  undu- 
lating, spread  out  to  infinity  before  us.  We  shared  an  all-night  thirst 
that  set  us  both  to  munching  snow  at  frequent  intervals.  By  ten  the 
sun  had  burned  away  the  whiteness  and  restored  to  the  scene  its  accus- 
tomed monk’s  robe  of  faded  yellow-brown.  All  morning  I continued 
to  guess  the  way  across  a steadily  rising  world,  in  the  utter  silence  that 
makes  more  impressive  the  dreariness  of  these  lofty  regions,  until  at 
noon  we  panted  over  a jagged  rock-ridge  from  which  all  the  kingdoms 
of  the  earth  lay  spread  out  below  us,  tumbled,  broken,  and  velvety 
brown  as  far  as  the  eye  could  command  even  in  this  transparent  air. 
As  we  started  gradually  downward,  shepherds  and  their  flocks  ap- 
peared once  more,  then  little  fenced  patches  and  stone-heap  hovels ; 
then  we  dropped  almost  suddenly  into  the  blazing  hot  valley  of  a little 
river,  along  which  tiled  huts  and  travelers  were  numerous.  Several 
times  I went  astray  and  waged  pitched  battle  with  Chusquito  cross- 
country, past  hovels  swarming  like  disturbed  beehives  with  barking 

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VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


dogs,  before  I once  more  got  securely  under  our  feet  the  trail  that  was 
to  lead  us  upward  again  over  the  next  paramo.  It  is  not  merely  that 
the  stupid  inhabitants  of  these  regions  speak  only  Quichua,  but  they 
are  incapable  of  giving  intelligent  directions,  even  in  that  tongue. 
There  is  something  exhilarating'  in  the  air  of  Andean  heights  that 
breeds  reflection  and  a peaceful  serenity  of  mind ; but  it  is  nature, 
rather  than  humanity,  that  awakens  the  marked  optimism  of  spirits. 
The  traveler  grows  “ inspired,”  lifted  up  out  of  himself  by  the  mag- 
nificence of  the  scene,  realizing  for  a moment  how  marvelous  is  this 
world  we  inhabit;  then  suddenly  an  Indian,  a human  being,  intrudes, 
and  snatches  him  back  to  earth  again.  Time  after  time  I caught  sight 
of  an  approaching  figure  which  the  mind,  from  youthful  force  of  habit, 
imbued  with  human  intelligence  — and  as  many  times  it  turned  out  to 
be  a shuffling  Indian,  stupid  and  glassy-eyed  from  the  quid  of  coca  in 
his  cheek  and  the  chicha  and  pisco  of  the  last  hamlet  in  his  belly, 
who  cringed  like  some  degenerate  animal  as  he  passed,  mumbling  some 
Quichua  monosyllable.  Incapable  of  intelligent  reply,  even  when  they 
are  not  in  a half-drunken  stupor,  these  plodding  creatures  have  a very 
hazy  notion  of  distance.  The  acco,  or  time  of  duration  of  a quid  of 
coca,  which  they  throw  on  the  achepctas,  or  symbolical  stone-heaps 
along  the  way,  is  at  best  but  an  uncertain  term  of  length,  and  their 
besotted  intellects  seldom  retain  the  memory  of  any  number  above 
three  or  four.  So  that,  in  spite  of  the  frequent  appearance  of  fellow- 
travelers,  I had  perforce  to  be  satisfied  with  the  half-certainty  that  I 
was  on  the  right  road,  without  any  notion  of  whether  the  nearest  shel- 
ter was  one,  or  ten  leagues  distant. 

Clouds  crawled  into  the  evening  sky  again,  where  the  daytime  sun- 
shine had  swept  it  clean ; the  purple  shadows  of  the  mountains,  across 
the  tops  of  which  the  setting  sun  cast  a crimson  glow,  spread  and 
darkened,  and  I had  visions  of  shivering  out  another  night  in  the 
corredor  of  an  Indian  hut,  or  out  on  the  bare,  freezing  pampa.  I had 
suffered  so  many  dreary  nights,  twelve  hours  long,  in  South  America, 
that  it  had  become  a habit  to  lose  my  cheerful  mood  in  the  late  after- 
noon and  succumb  to  apprehension,  as  of  some  impending  misfor- 
tune. Under  this  I developed  unconsciously  a pace  so  swift  that 
Chusquito,  like  a small  boy  trying  to  keep  up  with  an  inconsiderate 
father,  took  to  trotting  every  little  while  some  distance  ahead.  We 
were  now  far  up  again  on  a cold  puna  across  which  the  bitter  mountain 
wind  swept  unchecked,  and  even  my  companion  seemed  to  cast  ap- 
prehensive glances  at  the  angry,  black  clouds  overspreading  the  sky, 

370 


OVERLAND  TOWARD  CUZCO 


and  at  the  cold  dusk  descending  upon  us.  We  hurried  unbrokenly  on, 
without  a sign  of  town  or  hamlet,  though  the  last  Indian  stragglers 
still  bore  sufficient  evidences  of  intoxication  that  proved  it  could  be 
no  great  distance  off.  Then,  in  the  last  rays  of  daylight,  we  turned  a 
wind-whipped  boulder  and  caught  sight  of  the  place,  far  off  in  the  lap 
of  a stony  valley,  well  aware  from  long  Andean  experience  that  the 
intervening  distance  was  much  greater  than  appearance  suggested. 

Black  night  had  long  since  settled  down  when  I found  myself  sur- 
rounded by  indistinct,  low  structures  that  turned  out  to  be  Acabamba, 
home  of  one  Zambrano,  for  whom  I bore  a letter  from  the  “ Turks.” 
As  often  as  I inquired  for  him,  however,  there  came  back  that  Spanish- 
American-Indian  mumble  of  indifference  and  distrust,  “ Mas  arriba,” 
— higher  up,”  until  I felt  like  a District  Attorney  on  the  trail  of 
“ graft.”  When  a half-civilized  youth  in  “ store  ” clothes  gave  me 
the  same  identical,  lackadaisical  answer  for  the  tenth  or  twentieth  time, 
I caught  him  by  the  slack  of  the  garments  and  jerked  him  into  the 
street,  with  a polite  ultimatum  to  conduct  me  in  person  to  that  elusive 
upper  region. 

He  led  the  interminable,  cobbled  way  down  one  street  and  up  an- 
other, equally  unlighted,  and  finally  stopped  before  a zaguan  with  an 
“ Aqui,  senor.”  I cut  off  his  proposed  escape,  and  drove  him  into  the 
patio  to  summon  the  man  of  the  house.  He  returned  with  the  Indian 
mayordomo,  and  the  information  that  the  Zambrano  who  lived  there 
was  not  the  one  I sought,  and  was,  moreover,  out  of  town.  The  youth 
proposed  that  he  “ go  look  for  ” the  right  Zambrano. 

“No,  indeed,  my  friend,”  I countered.  “You  will  stay  right  with 
me  while  we  look  for  him.” 

“ Si,  senor,”  said  the  youth  in  a shivering  voice.  Then  he  turned 
back  across  town  and  plaza  by  another  route,  and  pointed  out  the 
Zambrano  household  exactly  two  doors  from  the  one  out  of  which  I 
had  originally  snatched  him.  The  flock  of  women  who  surged  out 
upon  me  greeted  me  with  the  threadbare  “No  ’sta  ’ca!”  He  never 
was  — when  I bore  a letter  to  him.  The  wife  spelled  it  out  laboriously 
under  the  blinking  light  of  a home-made  tallow  candle,  then  invited 
me  into  the  earth-floored  “ parlor,”  separated  by  a calico  curtain  from 
the  little  shop  she  kept. 

“ There  is  no  one  in  Acobamba  who  prepares  food  for  strangers,” 
she  replied  to  my  roundabout  hint,  “ but  we  shall  serve  you  such  as 
we  can  here  in  our  poor  house.” 

While  the  mystery  to  come  was  cooking,  I managed  to  get  inoffen- 

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VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


sively  into  her  possession  the  price  of  a peck  of  grain  for  Chusquito  — 
and  some  time  later  found  the  poor,  misused  animal  munching  about 
two  cents’  worth  of  old,  dry  corn-husks  in  the  corral. 

“ It  is,”  murmured  the  wife,  in  reply  to  my  questioning  gesture, 
“ that  there  is  no  grain  in  town  — at  these  hours.”  But  though  she 
would  have  considered  an  insult  any  direct  offer  of  a traveler  con- 
signed to  her  husband  by  letter  to  pay  for  his  accommodation,  she  care- 
fully avoided  any  further  reference  to  the  grain-money. 

It  would  have  been  in  the  highest  degree  scandalous  to  have  lodged 
a stranger  in  her  own  dwelling  during  the  absence  of  the  head  of  the 
household.  But  the  delegation  of  females,  having  discovered,  by  dint 
of  turning  the  house  wrong-side  out,  the  massive  key  of  a mud-flanked 
door  across  the  street,  let  me  into  an  abandoned  shop  lumbered  with 
the  accumulated  odds  and  ends  of  many  years,  an  immense,  woven- 
straw  hogshead  full  of  shelled  corn  bulking  above  the  rest.  A creaking 
board  counter,  barely  five  feet  long,  was  the  only  available  sleeping 
space.  The  only  means  of  avoiding  asphyxiation  was  to  leave  the  door 
open  to  any  passing  sneak-thief  or  congenital  hater  of  gringos.  But 
even  had  the  risk  been  great,  the  key  would  have  proved  an  effective 
weapon.  Unfortunately  it  would  have  been  anti-simpatico  to  have 
felled  with  it  the  solicitous  night-hawks  who  called  my  frequent  at- 
tention to  the  perils  of  night  air,  not  merely  by  rapping  on  the  door, 
but  by  prodding  me  in  the  ribs  with  their  sticks. 

It  was  butchering  day  in  Acobamba  when  I awoke,  and  at  the  sug- 
gestion of  my  hostess  I sent  a servant  to  buy  ten  cents’  worth  of  meat. 
She  returned  with  an  entire  basketful, — eight  slabs  of  raw,  red  beef, 
each  as  large  as  an  honest  sirloin  steak  “ for  two.”  Virtually  every 
shop  in  town  being  a pulperia,  it  was  easy  to  lay  in  supplies  for  the 
road  ahead.  But  though  competition  was  brisk  in  all  other  wares,  for 
some  reason  I was  never  able  to  fathom,  in  all  the  region  of  the  cen- 
tral Andes  my  favorite  food  was  always  hedged  round  with  refusals. 
As  often  as  I stepped  into  a shop  where  a basket  of  eggs  was  displayed, 
I was  sure  to  be  informed  in  a dull,  uninviting  monotone,  “ No  estan  de 
venta.”  “ Of  course  they  are  not  for  sale,”  the  experienced  Peruvian 
wayfarer  soon  learns  to  reply,  “No  Andean  lady  who  considers  her- 
self a lady  would  think  of  selling  eggs.  But  — er  ” — meanwhile  pick- 
ing out  the  largest  specimens  of  the  fruit  in  question  — “ I have  taken 
a dozen.  How  much  ? ” 

The  answer  was  sure  to  be  a meek,  “ Dos  reales  — ten  cents,  senor.” 

Over  the  lofty,  tumbled  world  ahead  the  way  was  often  so  steep  and 

372 


OVERLAND  TOWARD  CUZCO 


stony  and  contorted  that  Chusquito  more  than  once  fell  on  his  neck, 
and  threatened  to  twist  himself  permanently  out  of  shape.  It  was 
a land  so  dry  and  barren  that  only  the  half-liter  of  pisco  kept  my  thirst 
endurable.  Whenever  I paused  for  a sip,  my  companion  glanced  fur- 
tively and  anxiously  back  at  me,  as  if  he  remembered  other  masters  who 
had  got  bad  tempers  out  of  bottles  along  the  way.  But  his  was  none 
of  your  meek  and  canine  dispositions  that  permit  abuse  unprotest- 
ingly.  On  the  level,  high  pampas,  with  all  the  world  spread  out  in  full 
view  about  us,  the  exhilaration  of  scene  and  air  caused  me  unconsciously 
to  set  so  swift  a pace  that  I was  obliged  frequently  to  kick  the  brute 
out  from  under  my  feet  — until  he  retaliated  by  suddenly  projecting 
one  small,  shod  hoof  against  a shin  that  I was  distinctly  aware  of  for 
days  afterward. 

One  afternoon,  not  fifty  miles  beyond  Acabamba,  I was  threatened 
with  violence  for  the  first  time  during  my  fifteen  months  in  South 
America.  I sat  beside  a mountain  pool,  coaxing  my  cooking-outfit  un- 
der shelter  of  my  alforjas,  when  two  half-Indians,  bleary-eyed  with 
drink,  appeared  on  stout  mules.  They  had  nearly  passed  when  they 
caught  sight  of  me,  and  charged  forward  in  drunken  insolence,  all  but 
trampling  my  possessions  under  the  hoofs  of  their  animals.  In  the 
haste  of  the  moment  I made  the  error  of  showing  aggressiveness  to  the 
point  of  drawing  my  revolver  — and  came  perilously  near  having  to  use 
it  for  my  mistake.  When  reflection  caused  me  to  change  my  tactics 
and  humor  them  like  the  witless  children  they  were,  the  danger  was 
dissipated  like  a puff  of  smoke.  Within  ten  minutes  the  pair  grew  so 
maudlinly  affectionate  that  they  insisted  on  shaking  hands  alternately 
a dozen  times  each,  and  at  length  rode  slowly  away,  casting  frequent 
besotted,  loving  glances  behind  them. 

Across  a barren  paramo  ahead  the  mood  struck  me  to  cheer  the 
long  hours  with  my  mouth-organ.  Even  the  Indian  carries  one  of 
these,  or  a reed  flute  on  his  journeys,  and  whiles  away  the  sky-gazing 
solitudes  with  monotonous  ditties.  But  I was  soon  forced  to  forgo 
the  pleasure.  Not  merely  did  that  plebian  instrument  in  the  hands  of 
a gringo  bring  glances  of  unconcealed  contempt  from  the  rare  horse- 
men who  passed,  but  I could  no  sooner  strike  up  than  Chusquito,  un- 
humanly  frank  and  honest  in  his  criticisms,  would  lay  back  his  ears 
and  trot  ahead  well  out  of  hearing,  with  some  peril  to  my  pack,  before 
he  would  consent  to  fall  again  into  a walk. 


373 


CHAPTER  XV 


THE  ROUTE  OF  THE  CONQUISTADORES 

IT  was  in  the  scattered  cascrio  of  Marcas  that  I overtook  a 
traveling  piano.  I had  barely  installed  myself  by  force  and 
strategy  in  a mud  den,  and  tied  Chusquito  to  a molle  tree  before 
a heap  of  straw  in  which  he  alternately  rolled  and  ate,  when  a party  of 
gcnte  arrived,  among  them  an  old  woman  of  the  well-to-do  chola  class, 
carried  astride  the  shoulders  of  an  Indian.  Their  chief  spokesman  was 
a lawyer  named  Anchorena,  a white  man  of  some  education  and  even 
a slight  inkling  of  geography,  who  was  importing  an  upright  piano 
for  his  mansion  in  Ayacucho.  With  the  descending  night  came  a 
score  of  Indians  carrying  a large,  crude  harp,  several  fifes  and  guitars, 
and  a drum,  to  install  themselves  along  the  mud  benches  of  the  corredor 
of  the  building  inside  which  the  more  or  less  drink-maudlin  gente  had 
spread  themselves.  It  is  never  the  Peruvian’s  way  to  interfere  with 
the  celebrations  of  his  underlings,  however  disturbing  these  may  be, 
and  far  into  the  night  the  “ musicians  ” kept  up  an  unbroken,  dismal, 
tuneless,  indigenous  wail  that  forced  whoever  would  be  heard  to  shout. 
Anchorena,  professionally  inclined  to  like  the  sound  of  his  own  voice 
best,  bellowed  the  evening  through  in  an  endless  account  of  a fellow- 
townsman’s  visit  to  New  York  a bare  ten  years  before.  Of  all  the 
marvelous  experience,  what  seemed  to  astonish  both  the  teller  and  his 
hearers  most,  all  but  choking  the  Indian-riding  old  woman  with  in- 
credulity as  often  as  he  repeated  it,  was  the  alleged  fact  that  in  the 
best  New  York  hotels  guests  were  not  permitted  to  spit  on  the  floor. 
Come  to  think  of  it,  that  probably  would  astonish  a Peruvian. 

To  my  surprise  the  natives  were  off  ahead  of  us  in  the  morning,  and 
Chusquito  had  picked  his  way  many  hundred  feet  down  a stair-like 
trail  before  we  sighted  the  boxed  piano,  lying  on  its  back  on  a bit  of 
level  ground  far  below,  with  some  twenty-five  motley-arrayed  Indians 
squatted  about  it.  The  lawyer  shook  hands  effusively  and,  putting 
Chusquito  in  charge  of  the  barefoot  squire  who  was  leading  his  own 
cream-colored  coast  horse,  invited  me  to  listen  to  his  endless  chatter 
while  we  continued  the  swift  descent  together. 

374 


THE  ROUTE  OF  THE  CONQUISTADORES 


The  piano,  made  in  Germany,  had  been  set  down  in  Lima  for  $500. 
Freight  to  Huancayo  had  added  ten  percent,  to  the  cost.  From  the 
end  of  the  railway  to  Ayacucho,  a scant  two  hundred  miles,  the  exotic 
plaything  must  be  transported  on  men’s  backs,  as  the  Incas  imported  a 
thousand  things — ■ if  not  pianos  — in  the  days  of  their  power.  This 
stage  of  the  journey  would,  under  ordinary  circumstances,  have  nearly 
doubled  the  cost  of  the  instrument.  But  Anchorena  had  the  advantage 
of  owning  a large  hacienda  in  the  great  hot  valley  toward  which  we 
were  descending,  and  was  able  to  cut  the  expense  in  two  by  drawing 
upon  his  own  peons  for  the  labor  of  transportation.  Three  distinct 
gangs  had  been  sent  from  his  estate,  each  to  bear  the  burden  a third 
of  the  distance.  They  were  paid  the  extraordinary  wage  of  twenty 
cents  a day,  and  supplied  food,  chicha,  and  coca.  Each  gang  carried 
the  piano  for  a week,  and  it  was  the  second  party  celebrating  the  ar- 
rival of  the  third  that  had  made  noisy  the  night  at  Marcas. 

Each  morning,  shortly  after  midnight,  the  Indians  rose  to  munch 
mote,  or  boiled  corn,  for  an  hour  or  more,  after  which  a heavy  soup  of 
corn,  potatoes,  beans,  and  charqui,  was  served.  Then  for  another  hour 
the  men  poked  coca  leaves  one  by  one  into  their  cheeks,  mixing  them 
with  lime  from  their  little  gourds,  and  by  dawn,  the  effect  of  the  chew- 
ing having  made  itself  felt,  they  rose  to  their  feet  and  were  off.  Some 
forty  peons  set  their  shoulders  to  the  several  poles  attached  to  the 
boxed  piano,  a picket-line  with  shovels,  axes,  and  ropes  was  thrown  out 
in  advance  to  widen  the  trail  and  lend  assistance  in  the  steeper  places, 
and  an  army  of  servants,  cooks,  squires,  and  the  numerous  capatases, 
or  bosses,  required  for  any  effective  Indiaa  labor,  brought  up  the  rear 
of  the  expedition. 

From  the  punas  of  the  day  before,  totally  barren  but  for  the  dreary, 
yellow  ichu,  we  had  descended  through  a zone  of  scrub  bushes,  lower 
still  through  thirstless,  sand-loving  cactus,  and  were  now  dropping 
swiftly  through  a dead,  desert  landscape  by  zigzag  trails  as  painfully 
steep  and  unpeopled  as  those  of  the  Ecuador-Peruvian  boundary. 
Architecture  changed  with  the  altitude,  so  that  the  openwork  huts  be- 
came little  more  than  thatch  roofs  on  poles,  shading  the  languid,  loafing 
inhabitants  of  a place  called  Huarpo,  hot  as  Panama,  on  the  edge  of  a 
river  cutting  off  a broad,  sandy  valley  I had  seen  from  the  sky  the  day 
before.  The  surrounding  region  was  a cofard'm,  that  is,  it  belonged  to 
some  wooden  saint  to  whom  it  had  been  bequeathed  by  a beata,  one  of 
the  many  pious  old  women  who  have  thus  left  great  tracts  of  the  An- 
des perpetually  in  morte  main.  For  the  desire  of  these  sanctimonious 

375 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


matrons  is  to  provide  a permanent  income  for  the  masses  requisite  to 
the  repose  of  their  souls,  and  as  their  piety  is  commonly  tempered  with 
experience  of  the  ways  of  this  world,  they  usually  reject  the  suggestion 
of  the  Church  to  sell  the  property  and  give  the  money  directly  to  the 
priest,  lest  he  grow  forgetful,  in  a way  even  priests  have,  and  neglect 
his  duty  toward  the  dwellers  in  purgatory.  Huarpo  is  also  paludic, 
or  raging  with  intermittent  fevers,  and  no  wise  man  drinks  water 
within  sight  of  it.  The  appearance  of  a gringo  in  their  midst  aroused 
even  these  languid,  fever-hued,  desert  people  to  an  unusual  concentra- 
tion of  attention,  one  bedraggled  female  bursting  out  at  last  with  a 
remark  in  Quichua  too  rapid  for  my  ears,  but  which  the  lawyer  trans- 
lated : “ Caramba ! Si  yo  estaba  prenada  de  seguro  saldria  la  cara 

gringuita ! ” It  is  a common  superstition  in  the  Andes  that  a child 
will  closely  resemble  the  person  the  mother  has  looked  most  fixedly 
upon  during  the  months  before  its  birth. 

In  spite  of  the  fact  that  everything  I owned  in  South  America,  not 
only  my  letter  of  credit  and  the  papers  necessary  to  prove  my  identity, 
but  even  my  money,  had  been  left  in  my  alforjas  under  the  tender  care 
of  an  Indian  boy  miles  behind,  I did  little  worrying.  The  Andean 
traveler  soon  grows  accustomed  to  trusting  his  possessions  to  penniless 
peons,  for  losses  are  astonishingly  rare.  For  all  that,  I caught  myself 
glancing  anxiously  now  and  then  up  the  wall  of  shale  and  loose  rock 
that  piled  into  the  sky  above  us.  The  piano-movers  made  good 
time,  in  spite  of  many  a zigzag  and  desert  precipice,  where  rope  and 
home-made  tackle  and  the  widening  of  the  trail  were  often  necessary. 
We  had  not  enjoyed  the  shade  of  the  huts  an  hour  before  the  van- 
guard appeared,  and  shortly  afterward  the  lawyer’s  bulky  toy  was  laid 
in  the  baking  sand  beside  us,  and  the  sweating,  dust-covered  carriers 
swarmed  about  the  huge  jar  of  chicha  de  molle  that  had  been  purchased 
for  them.  Progress  would  have  been  much  less  rapid  but  for  the  fact 
that  the  third  gang,  knowing  theirs  was  the  last  shift,  realized  the  ad- 
vantage of  finishing  the  journey  to  Ayacucho  as  soon  as  possible.  Yet 
their  conception  of  hurrying  was  not  exactly  vertigenous.  They  halted 
a long  hour,  not  to  eat,  which  they  did  only  morning  and  evening,  but 
to  prepare  new  quids  of  coca.  From  a large  grain-sack  the  lawyer 
dealt  out  to  each  of  the  peons  with  his  own  fair  hand  a small  handful 
of  the  narcotic  leaves.  They  slunk  forward  one  by  one,  with  out- 
stretched hats,  and  a hint  of  eagerness  on  their  besotted,  expressionless 
faces,  with  the  air  of  men  who  would  have  sold  their  souls  for  this  few 
cents’  worth  of  brutalizing  leaves. 

376 


On  the  “road”  to  Ayacucho  I overtook  a lawyer  who  was  importing  a piano.  It  required 
three  gangs  of  Indians  and  nearly  a month’s  time  to  transport  the  instrument 
less  than  200  miles  from  the  end  of  the  railway  line 


Carrying  the  piano  across  one  of  the  typical  bridges  of  the  Peruvian  Andes.  In  many 
places  the  trail  had  to  be  widened  or  recut,  and  the  instrument  had  now  and  then 
to  be  let  down  or  hauled  up  with  ropes,  or  block  and  tackle 


THE  ROUTE  OF  THE  CONOUISTADORES 

Chusquito,  who  had  appeared  at  last,  all  intact  but  as  covered  with 
fine  sand  as  from  a trip  across  the  Sahara,  was  too  tiny  to  have  crossed 
the  river  without  wetting  my  baggage.  It  was  the  cream-colored  coast 
horse  that  saved  me  a detour  of  several  miles  to  a bridge  down-stream. 
Except  for  the  lawyer  and  his  mayordomos,  the  expedition  stripped  to 
the  waist  and  forded  the  stream  inch  by  inch  under  the  piano,  slipping 
individually,  but  fortunately  not  in  unison,  on  the  stones  at  the  bottom, 
and  spending  a half-hour  in  a precarious  task  that  would  have  been 
impossible  in  any  but  the  dry  season.  In  the  shade  of  a molle  grove 
beyond,  Anchorena,  who  had  recently  been  won  to  up-to-date  methods,, 
dealt  out  a quinine  pill  to  each  of  the  Indians.  Few  were  able  to 
swallow  them  without  chewing,  and  made  wry  faces  and  animal  noises 
in  consequence.  Several  surreptitiously  got  rid  of  the  detested  white 
man’s  remedy  while  their  master’s  eyes  were  not  upon  them.  Though 
the  day  was  still  young,  the  cavalcade  was  to  camp  on  the  edge  of  the 
drowsy,  sand-carpeted  town  of  Izcutaco,  a bare  mile  above  the  river, 
and  when  I left  them  the  cooks  were  already  heating  over  a blazing 
fire  of  molle  berries  the  enormous  iron  kettle,  six  feet  in  diameter, 
under  which  an  Indian  had  plodded,  bent  double,  all  day.  When  I 
took  leave  of  the  lawyer,  he  hoped  to  reach  Ayacucho  in  four  days, 
making  the  journey  from  Huancayo  three  weeks  in  duration,  at  a total 
cost  of  about  $250,  without  reckoning  the  labor  lost  on  his  hacienda 
while  the  three  gangs  were  going  and  coming  and  recuperating  from 
their  unwonted  toil. 

The  molle  tree  covered  all  the  great,  tilted  plain  before  me,  lending 
it  an  inviting  green  tinge  in  spite  of  its  semi-desert  character.  Its 
leaves  are  not  unlike  those  of  the  willow,  and  it  produces  in  clusters 
great  quantities  of  a peppery  red  berry  somewhat  resembling  the  cur- 
rant in  appearance,  and  those  of  our  red  cedar  in  taste.  These  are  well 
supplied  with  saccharine  and  ferment  readily,  constituting  the  chief 
curse  of  the  region,  in  the  form  of  an  intoxicant  so  cheap  and  plentiful 
that  the  inhabitants  are  more  often  drunk  than  working. 

In  Huanta  the  addressee  of  my  Turkish  letter  was  Don  Emilio, 

, a hearty  countryman  pleasantly  free  from  the  tiresome  “ polish  ” 

of  the  Latin-American  city-dweller.  Early  in  our  conversation  he  took 
pains  to  inform  me  that  he  never  permitted  a priest  to  cross  his 
threshold.  A fellow-townsman  later  confided  to  me  that  the  prohibi- 
tion dated  from  the  day  that  the  oldest  daughter  of  my  host  had  been 
betrayed  through  the  ministrations  of  the  confessional.  There  was 
something  pleasantly  reminiscent  of  old  patriarchial  days  in  the  way 

377 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


we  all  sat  at  meat  together  around  the  long  table  in  the  back  corredor, 
surrounded  by  a flock  of  servants,  the  older,  shy-mannered  girls  rising 
now  and  then  during  the  meal  to  tend  shop.  Yet  it  is  not  easy  to  make 
oneself  agreeable  to  such  a family,  for  lack  of  intellectual  interests  cuts 
down  the  conversation  to  the  simplest  matters.  The  women  of  the 
household  preferred  the  guttural  Quichua,  but  Don  Emilio  found 
that  tongue  more  difficult  than  his  accustomed  Spanish.  My  host  was 
one  of  the  “ city  fathers,”  and  perhaps  the  best-read  man  in  the  com- 
munity, yet  he  referred  to  the  United  States  and  Europe  as  “ a place 
somewhere  up  the  coast,”  and  desired  to  know  whether  Italy  was 
in  New  York,  or  New  York  in  Italy.  I attempted,  in  my  struggle 
to  make  conversation,  to  give  the  family  some  conception  of  our  north- 
ern midwinters. 

“ Brr ! Nearly  as  cold  as  Huancavelica,  it  must  be,”  shivered  the 
wife. 

“ How  high  is  the  highest  Andes  in  your  United  States?  ” asked  Don 
Emilio,  with  a hint  of  suspicion  in  his  voice. 

I told  him. 

“ Then  it  is  impossible  for  it  to  be  cold  there,”  he  cried,  conclusively, 
“ for  that  is  scarcely  higher  than  Huanta  itself.” 

Huanta  lies  close  to  the  great  montana,  or  Amazonian  hot-lands,  and 
the  “ chocolate  de  Huanta  ” is  famous  throughout  Peru.  But  the  trails 
to  that  fruitful  region  are  so  nearly  impassable  that  the  interchange  of 
products  is  only  a fraction  of  what  it  might  be.  Set  in  one  of  the  dry 
belts  that  are  so  frequent  in  the  Andes,  the  great,  tilted  plain  depends 
on  irrigation  Dor  most  of  its  fruits.  Molle,  fig,  and  willow  trees  abound, 
yet  the  ground  beneath  them  is  barren  of  grass.  Eighty  percent,  of 
the  valley  is  said  to  be  chiefly  Indian  in  blood.  Peons  are  paid  an 
average  of  twelve  cents  a day,  and  judging  from  what  I saw  of  them, 
they  are  grossly  overpaid.  Nearly  a half-century  ago  Squier  found 
“ drunkenness  universal  throughout  the  Sierra,  and  nothing  neglected 
that  could  be  turned  into  intoxicating  beverages.”  To  this  day  there 
is  slight  improvement  in  this  respect.  Thanks  to  the  molle  berry,  in- 
temperance is  high,  even  for  Peru,  and  laziness  reaches  its  culmination 
during  the  season  when  the  tunas,  ripening  on  the  cactus  hedges,  feed 
alike  birds  and  Indians.  In  the  town  almost  every  hut  is  a little 
drunkery,  with  an  inviting  display  of  bottles  of  all  shapes  and  sizes. 
The  life  of  the  place  was  typified  by  a soft-j^iuscled  lump  of  a man 
sitting  in  the  shade  of  his  shop,  drowsily  switching  flies  off  himself 
with  a horse’s  tail  mounted  on  a wooden  handle.  To  have  seen  him 

378 


THE  ROUTE  OF  THE  CONOUISTADORES 

reading  a book,  or  even  whittling  a stick,  would  have  been  entirely  out 
of  keeping  with  the  local  color. 

House-flies,  unknown  in  the  upper  altitudes,  were  more  than  numer- 
ous. Cats,  too,  were  in  evidence  for  almost  the  first  time  in  the  Sierra. 
The  assertion  of  scientists  that  these  cannot  endure  high  regions  was 
denied  by  the  natives,  who  attributed  their  absence  elsewhere  to  the 
lack  of  rats  to  feed  on.  Dogs,  unfortunately,  are  indifferent  to  either 
drawback,  and  the  Andean  town  has  yet  to  be  discovered  that  does  not 
swarm  with  them.  Llamas  avoid  Huanta,  and  the  climate  is  more  fitted 
to  donkeys  than  to  mountain  ponies.  An  Indian  trotted  in  from  one 
of  the  irrigated  alfalfares  on  the  edge  of  town  with  a poncho-load  of 
fresh,  green  alfalfa,  gay  with  purple  and  red  flowers,  soon  after  our 
arrival.  But  at  the  first  taste  of  this  new  species  of  fodder  Chusquito 
showed  keen  disappointment.  Like  myself,  he  preferred  regions  of 
ten  thousand  feet  and  upward.  During  most  of  our  stay  he  hung 
sad  and  dejected,  as  if  homesick  for  the  cold,  penetrating  air  and  the 
wiry  grass  of  his  native  mountains,  and  it  was  here  that  I saw  him 
lie  down  for  the  first  time  since  we  had  joined  forces. 

We  pushed  on  to  Ayacucho  under  no  very  auspicious  circumstances, 
for  the  department  capital  was  reported  to  be  raging  with  an  epidemic 
of  typhoid  and  small-pox  that  had  forced  it  to  ask  aid  of  the  central 
government.  The  day’s  tramp  varied  from  a blazing,  semi-tropical 
gorge  to  a barren,  waterless  range  so  lofty  that  I found  it  necessary  to 
stretch  out  on  my  back  at  the  summit  to  catch  my  breath.  A con- 
trary mood,  or  too  long  a rest,  made  Chusquito  choose  to  be  obstreper- 
ous beyond  all  custom,  and  twice  he  set  his  heart  wilfully  on  branch 
trails,  and  came  perilously  near  escaping  with  all  my  possessions. 
Thereafter  I kept  him  tied  to  my  belt,  and  for  once  he  set  a pace  more 
swift  than  I would  have  had  it.  Early  in  the  afternoon  the  blazing 
desert  landscape  was  broken  by  the  sight  of  a city  that  could  have  been 
no  other  than  Ayacucho,  filling  the  hollow  of  a green  bowl,  several  hut- 
lined  streets  radiating  upward  from  it,  like  the  legs  of  some  great 
tarantula  stretched  on  its  back.  A perfectly  level  road  seemed  to  prom- 
ise a quick  entrance ; but  almost  at  the  edge  of  the  town  the  world  fell 
suddenly  away  into  a bottomless  earthquake  crack,  where  we  sweated 
for  an  hour  in  a headlong  descent  far  out  of  sight  of  human  habitation, 
and  toiled  upward  again  to  the  crest  of  the  horizon,  all  to  advance  a 
bare  five  hundred  yards.  Raging  with  thirst,  we  strode  swiftly  down 
upon  the  town,  only  to  be  blocked  at  the  edge  of  it  by  a religious  pro- 
cession of  hundreds  of  girls  in  snow-white  dress.  As  if  to  show  off 

379 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


before  his  fellow-countrymen,  Chusquito  redoubled  his  cussedness,  and 
persisted,  in  spite  of  all  my  efforts,  in  taking  advantage  of  the  smooth, 
flagstone  sidewalks,  forcing  two-legged  pedestrians  into  the  rough- 
cobbled  street.  It  did  not  occur  to  me  that  he,  too,  might  be  foot-sore. 
At  the  first  open  door  through  which  I spied  bottles,  he  attempted  to 
enter  with  me,  and  watched  me  disgustedly  while  I opened  a bottle  of 
native  soda-water,  a second,  then  a third,  until  the  proprietress  all  but 
fainted  with  astonishment  at  sight  of  a man  who  came  on  foot  drink- 
ing up  a whole  fifteen  cents’  worth  at  once  — and  actually  paying  for 
it. 

Both  the  hotels  of  Ayacucho  were  the  usual  low  buildings,  extending 
around  a large  court  one  entered  beneath  a topheavy  archway,  where 
guests  appeared  to  be  considered  a nuisance,  to  be  avoided  by  both  host 
and  servants  as  long  as  possible.  I was  finally  awarded  a dungeon 
opening  directly  on  all  the  assorted  activities,  misdemeanors,  and  in- 
decencies indigenous  to  the  cobbled  patios  of  Andean  hotels,  but  which 
had  the  unusual  feature  of  a window  — with  wooden  bars,  for  glass 
is  a luxury,  even  in  an  important  department  capital.  The  chamber  was 
cool  to  the  point  of  sogginess  and  had,  of  course,  to  be  cleared  out  and 
furnished  to  my  order.  It  was  apparent  that  here  was  a city  that  would 
reward  several  days’  stay,  and  I set  about  finding  more  fitting  accommo- 
dations for  Chusquito  than  the  circle  about  a post  to  which  he  had 
been  confined  at  every  halt  since  he  had  come  into  my  possession.  Long 
search  and  persistent  inquiry  brought  me  to  a professional  inverna,  a 
term  supposed  to  designate  a green  pasture  in  which  an  animal  ac- 
cepted as  guest  can  wallow  and  gorge  to  his  heart’s  content.  For- 
tunately I am  nothing  if  not  sceptical  in  such  Peruvian  matters  and, 
sure  enough,  investigation  proved  the  place  to  be  only  a bare  field 
in  which  the  owner  promised  to  give  “ plenty  of  food  and  water  ” at 
ten  cents  a day.  Promises  and  starvation  are  too  closely  allied  in  the 
Andes,  where  he  who  will  know  his  animal  well  fed  must  see  to  the 
feeding  in  person.  I had  all  but  resigned  myself  and  the  maltreated 
beast  to  the  inevitable,  and  had  ordered  a load  of  alfalfa  brought  to  the 
hotel  patio,  when  I ran  across  the  piano  importer,  who  begged  me  to  do 
him  the  honor  of  letting  him  send  the  animal  to  his  farm  a few  miles 
out  of  town.  When  at  last  I got  to  bed,  my  sleep  was  full  of  feverish 
dreams  in  which  I was  dragged  to  destruction  times  without  number 
over  bottomless  precipices  by  a rope  tied  to  my  belt,  while  I gazed 
about  me  in  vain  for  a patch  of  green  in  a bald  and  blistered  landscape. 

At  first  sight  this  half-green  hole  in  the  ground,  surrounded  by 

380 


THE  ROUTE  OF  THE  CONOUISTADORES 


cactus-grown  stretches  of  loose  stones  and  bare,  repulsive  mountains, 
seemed  a queer  place  for  a city.  But  the  situation  improves  somewhat 
upon  closer  acquaintance.  Under  the  scanty  trees  that  lend  the  hollow 
its  color  the  soil  is  fertile  when  favored  by  the  rains,  and  those  who  can 
avoid  going  out  in  the  middle  of  the  day  will  find  the  climate  little 
short  of  perfect.  The  main  drawbacks  to  what  might  be  a not  un- 
pleasant dwelling-place  are  the  absence  of  even  the  rudiments  of  hy- 
giene, and  the  whirlwinds  that  spring  up  often  with  sudden,  unex- 
pected violence  and  envelop  the  town  in  clouds  of  dust  and  evidence 
of  the  absence  of  street-sweepers,  or  bring  down  a wintry  wave  from 
the  snowclad  to  the  south  that  lends  its  contrast  to  the  picture. 

At  the  time  of  the  Conquest  the  only  gathering  of  mankind  corre- 
sponding to  the  present  city  was  what  Prescott  calls  “ Huamanga, 
midway  between  Lima  and  Cuzco.”  The  story  runs  that  an  Inca,  pass- 
ing through  the  region,  was  sitting  at  meat  out-of-doors  when  he  saw, 
circling  above  him,  a magnificent  huaman,  Quichua  for  falcon.  Struck 
with  admiration,  he  held  up  a choice  morsel  crying,  “ Huaman  ca ! 
— Take  it,  falcon ! ” Whatever  the  truth  of  the  legend,  the  depart- 
ment of  which  Ayacucho  is  the  capital  is  still  known  as  Huamanga. 
The  city  itself  takes  its  name  from  the  Quichua  terms  aya  (corpse), 
and  ccucho  (corner),  in  other  words,  “Dead  Man’s  Corner.”  Long 
before  the  arrival  of  the  Spaniards  all  this  region  was  thus  known  be- 
cause of  a great  battle  between  the  fierce  local  tribes  and  those  of 
Cuzco,  in  which  the  latter  were  routed.  But  the  tables  were  turned 
under  Huayna  Ccapac,  the  Great,  who  colonized  the  territory  by  the 
customary  Inca  method  of  settling  it  with  mitimacs,  or  “ transplanted 
people  ” from  another  province.  The  great  military  highway  passed 
close  to  the  present  site,  but  the  only  town  of  any  size  between  Huan- 
cayo  and  Cuzco  in  early  colonial  days  was  Huari,  now  an  insignificant 
Indian  village  lost  among  the  stony  hills.  Manco,  the  revolted  Inca, 
and  his  followers  formed  the  chronic  habit  of  falling  upon  travelers  be- 
tween the  ancient  and  the  new  capital  of  Peru,  and  in  1548  Pizarro 
ordered  a city  founded  for  their  protection,  usually  known  as  Hua- 
manga. Not  until  after  what  is  known  to  history  as  the  Battle  of 
Ayacucho,  in  which  Sucre  defeated  the  Spanish  veterans  who  had  fled 
before  Bolivar  from  the  icy  pampa  of  Junin,  and  brought  to  an  end 
the  struggle  of  the  new  world  for  political  freedom  begun  in  New  Eng- 
land a half-century  before,  was  the  older  and  more  appropriate  name 
revived. 

In  colonial  times  it  was  a far  more  important  city.  A census  taken 

38i 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


by  a German  'in  1736  showed  a population  of  more  than  40,000.  To- 
day it  has  barely  two  inhabitants  for  each  of  its  8000  feet  elevation 
above  sea-level.  Even  Squier  found  it  “ laid  out  on  a grand  scale,  but 
with  unmistakable  signs  of  a great  decline  in  wealth  and  population.” 
Epidemics  of  smallpox,  typhoid,  and  yellow  fever,  the  advance  of 
machinery  and  foreign  importation  over  the  local  handicraft  manufac- 
ture of  tocuyo  (cloth  from  the  cactus  fiber),  frasadas,  or  hand-woven 
blankets,  and  native  shoes,  with  the  corresponding  decrease  in  the 
growing  of  cotton  in  the  region,  were  the  chief  causes  of  this  decline. 
Then,  too,  the  building  of  railroads  left  the  ancient  route  from  Lima  to 
Cuzco  stranded,  and  only  a rare  gringo  andarin,  driving  a shaggy  and 
sun-faded  chusquito,  comes  now  to  visit  the  once  proud  city.  Should 
the  long-threatened  railway  across  Peru  ever  come  to  pass,  Ayacucho, 
like  Huancavelica,  may  come  more  or  less  into  her  own  again. 

The  cities  of  our  own  land  are  not  without  their  faults,  but  he  who 
would  fully  realize  the  advantages  of  even  the  most  backward  of  them 
should  come  and  dwell  for  a time  in  one  of  these  shipwrecked  “ capi- 
tals ” of  the  Andes.  By  night  Ayacucho  is  “ lighted  ” by  dim  kerosene 
contrivances,  mildly  resembling  a miner’s  torch,  inside  square,  glass- 
sided lanterns  of  medieval  origin,  each  house-owner  paying  from  five 
to  twenty  cents  a month  for  his  share  of  the  illumination.  Gradually, 
however,  electric  lights  were  being  installed  — those  pale,  ought- 
to-be-sixteen-candle-power  bulbs  indigenous  to  Andean  towns  — 
against  which  a considerable  opposition  had  developed  because  of  the 
threatened  cost  of  nearly  a dollar  monthly  to  each  householder.  In 
view  of  the  fact  that  the  average  shop  rents  for  $3  a month,  it  was  nat- 
ural that  so  decided  an  increase  in  expenses  should  be  resented.  The 
huge  main  plaza  is  garnished  only  with  a central  fountain  surrounded 
by  the  customary  iron  fence,  “ due  to  the  untold  patriotism  of  Juan  Fu- 
lano,  ex-alcalde,  etc.,”  and  a few  ancient,  backless,  rough-stone  benches. 
The  favorite  loafers’  gathering-place  is  under  the  portales,  or  arcades, 
that  surround  the  square  on  tlrree  sides.  These  are  lined  with  shops 
into  the  blue-black  shadows  of  which  the  plaza-stroller’s  eyes  peer 
gratefully,  but  wellnigh  blindly,  from  the  blazing  sunshine  outside. 
Compared  even  with  Spain,  Ayacucho  harbors  an  unbelievable  number 
of  non-producers.  Hundreds  of  little  shops,  endlessly  duplicated, 
stretch  away  along  its  every  street,  tended  by  lounging  men  and  women 
with  no  other  desire  in  life  than  to  sell  a few  cents’  worth  of  something, 
particularly  strong  drink,  and  not  even  desiring  that  very  decidedly. 
Their  business  methods  are  crude  in  the  extreme.  The  town,  for  ex- 

382 


THE  ROUTE  OF  THE  CONQUISTADORES 

ample,  is  noted  for  its  native  chocolate.  The  cacao  beans  grown  in 
the  montana  on  the  east  are  hulled  and  roasted,  mixed  with  crude 
sugar  and  vanilla,  and  crushed  and  rolled  again  and  again  by  hand 
under  stone  rollers,  producing  a gravelly,  but  not  untoothsome  product. 
Yet,  though  every  merchant  in  town  is  ready  to  sell  these  individually  at 
2/2  cents  a cake,  not  one  of  them  can  be  induced  to  sell  by  weight. 
“ No  es  costumbre,”  answers  every  man,  woman,  and  child  tending 
shop,  and  though  all  hover  on  the  verge  of  poverty,  not  a man  among 
them  will  overstep  fixed  custom,  even  to  this  extent,  to  win  a less  pre- 
carious livelihood.  For  a country  where  “ trusts  ” are  unknown  the 
entire  town  is  rather  staunchly  agreed  on  prices.  The  money  in  use 
is  almost  exclusively  silver,  which  is  lugged  back  and  forth  through 
the  streets  in  cotton  bags.  Many  of  the  coins,  having  at  some  time 
served  as  female  adornment,  have  holes  in  them,  and  though  these 
are  perfectly  acceptable  to  Ayacucho,  they  are  worthless  elsewhere  in 
the  country,  so  that  to  my  usual  task  of  gathering  small  change  for  the 
road  ahead  was  added  that  of  carefully  weeding  out  all  holed  pieces. 
The  average  ayacuchano  has  a kind  of  crude  insolence  and  an  arrogance 
bred  in  isolated  places  which,  added  to  his  mountaineer  uncouthness, 
makes  him  not  over  pleasant.  Toward  me  they  assumed  a suspicious 
air  that  suggested  some  foreigner  had  once  long  ago  cheated  some  one 
among  them  out  of  ten  cents.  Even  for  Peruvians,  the  plighted  word 
of  every  grade  of  inhabitant  is  peculiarly  worthless.  Of  a dozen  or 
more  promises  of  larger  or  smaller  importance  made  me  during  my 
stay,  not  one  ever  reached  even  the  point  of  attempted  fulfilment.  The 
population  is  very  largely  Indian  — often  in  diluted  form  — and  gen- 
uinely white  persons  are  decidedly  rare,  certainly  not  ten  percent., 
though  there  are  many  more  than  that,  strutting  about  in  what  Aya- 
cucho fancies  faultless  dress,  who  consider  themselves  such,  and  who 
would  be  astonished  at  the  set-back  their  pretentions  would  receive  in 
more  exacting  communities.  The  town  swarms  with  tailors,  chiefly 
boys  and  youths  with  slight  ability  at  their  trade,  who  sit,  like  the  crafts- 
men of  Damascus,  in  little  shops  the  entire  front  of  which  is  open  door, 
and  work  steadily  but  languidly  on  miserable  materials  that  barely  last 
long  enough  for  purchaser  and  seller  to  part,  their  attention  chiefly  on 
whatever  passes  in  the  street.  The  Indians  of  the  region  still  weave  a 
heavy  wool  frazada  of  astounding  combinations  of  color,  and  the  town 
is  somewhat  noted  for  the  filigree  work  and  wood-carving  for  which 
it  was  once  famous.  But  for  the  most  part  it  is  silent,  smokeless,  and 
industry-lacking  as  any  village  of  the  Andes,  without  a single  wheeled 

383 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


vehicle  to  rumble  over  its  cobbles.  Its  water  is  so  bad  that  even  the 
natives  admitted  I should  not  drink  it.  Indeed,  I did  not  even  dare 
develop  films  in  it.  Not  that  its  source  is  ill-chosen,  but  in  the  several 
miles  of  open  conduit  to  the  city,  the  Indians  make  free  use  of  it  for  any 
of  their  lavatory  processes.  The  local  Quichua  dialect  varies  much 
from  that  of  Cuzco,  the  Florence  of  the  Inca  tongue,  so  that  Indians 
from  the  two  towns  understand  each  other  with  difficulty. 

Ayacucho  is  about  as  badly  overdone  in  churches  as  any  town  in 
church-boasting  South  America.  In  colonial  days  a religious  edifice 
was  built  on  the  slightest  provocation,  of  cut-stone  if  possible,  of  cobbles 
or  adobe  if  necessary,  until  to-day  the  entire  population  might  be 
housed  five  times  over  in  those  that  are  left.  Not  a few  are  things  of 
beauty  in  their  time-mellowed  delapidation.  The  cathedral,  centuries 
old,  is  surpassed  in  all  Peru  only  by  those  of  Lima  and  Cuzco.  Ex- 
ternally, and  at  some  distance,  like  so  many  things  of  Spanish  origin,  it 
has  an  imposing  and  not  inartistic  appearance.  But  the  interior  is 
disappointing.  Here  is  the  usual  Latin-American  garish  gaudiness  of 
wooden,  tin,  and  porcelain  saints,  with  no  suggestion  of  art,  except 
in  the  intricately  carved  wooden  pulpit  and  the  choir  stalls  flanking  the 
altar.  Behind  each  of  the  latter  a boy  stands  during  services,  holding 
a candle  above  the  chanting  friar  whose  bulk  amply  fills  the  niche. 
A spittoon  is  provided  for  each  of  the  singers.  Ash-trays  had  evi- 
dently not  yet  come  into  style.  An  unusual  feature  was  seats  for 
the  congregation,  which  in  most  churches  of  the  Andes  is  left  to  kneel 
on  the  bare  floor,  or  to  bring  a servant  carrying  a prie-dieu.  It  was 
the  first  place  in  Peru  where  the  beating  of  church-bells  reached  any- 
thing like  the  hubbub  of  Ecuador  or  Colombia,  for  Ayacucho  is  so 
fanatical  that  the  law  against  this  is  openly  disobeyed.  Sleek,  well- 
fed,  cigarette-smoking  priests  are  everywhere  in  evidence,  scores  of 
“barefoot”  friars  in  their  stout  leather  sandals  waddle  about  town 
with  the  self-complacency  of  the  sacred  bulls  of  India,  and  the  public 
appearance  of  the  bishop  brings  all  activity  to  a standstill,  and  all  be- 
holders except  the  upper-class  men  to  their  knees. 

As  in  most  centers  of  religious  fanaticism,  the  town  reeks  with 
poverty.  Even  for  South  America,  the  overwhelming  display  of  rags 
is  striking,  and  ignorance  and  debauch  is  in  constant  evidence.  Yet  the 
children,  the  babies  particularly,  sometimes  have  a brightness  and  an 
innocence  about  them  that  suggests  what  might  be  made  of  them 
could  they  be  caught  young,  very,  very  young,  and  taken  away  from 
this  environment  of  dirt  and  ignorance  and  immorality  and  priests. 

384 


The  striking  headdres3  of  the  women  of  Ayacucho — The  friendly  and  ingratiating  waiters  of  our  hotel  in 

in  this  case  purple  embroidered  with  red.  The  Ayacucho.  They  had  two  shoes,  three  eyes,  and 

dicclla  about  the  shoulders  is  blue  no^  a crum^>  soap  between  them.  One 

wears  a bright  pink  shirt,  the  other 
one  of  brilliant  maroon 


THE  ROUTE  OF  THE  CONQUISTADORES 


Yet  who  knows  ? The  more  one  travels,  the  more  one’s  opinion  wavers 
between  the  effects  of  ancestry  and  environment. 

It  has  been  said  of  Ayacucho  that  her  chief  occupations  are  drinking, 
cock-fighting,  love-making,  and  religious  processions.  The  last  is 
most  in  public  evidence.  The  first  fiesta  to  break  out  after  my  arrival 
was  that  of  the  “ Virgen  de  las  Mercedes.”  All  shops  closed  for 
the  occasion,  and  the  entire  region  boomed  and  clanged  with  the 
exertions  of  gangs  of  boys  filling  every  belfry  and  vying  with  each 
other  in  adding  to  the  uproar.  At  four  of  the  afternoon,  when  the 
sun  had  lost  some  of  its  glare,  the  cathedral  disgorged  a solemn 
throng  escorting  three  huge  floats  that  began  a snail-paced  circuit  of 
the  broad  plaza,  halting  before  every  building  of  importance  while 
the  choir  sang  some  Latin  anthem.  Before  the  Virgin  and  her  two 
accompanying  saints,  all  flashing  with  rich  and  many-colored  silks, 
marched  teams  of  sanctimonious-faced  beatas  with  ribbons  over  their 
shoulders,  feigning  to  supply  the  motive  power  which  was,  in  reality, 
furnished  by  toiling  and  sweating  Indians  half-concealed  beneath  the 
massive  floats.  As  the  head  of  the  procession  reached  certain  points, 
an  aged  Indian  acolyte  set  oft"  home-made  fireworks  of  intricate  and 
long-enduring  design,  that  filled  the  air  as  with  a sudden  bombard- 
ment. The  instant  these  fell  silent,  swarms  of  boys  raced  into  the 
smoke  from  every  side  to  fight  with  the  low-caste  functionary  for 
possession  of  the  charred  framework.  Every  male,  as  well  as  the 
Indian  women,  uncovered  as  the  figures  passed  — except  myself,  too 
busy  with  photography  to  honor  the  local  customs.  Yet,  where  a 
century  ago  such  sign  of  the  heretic  would  have  caused  homicidal 
riot,  I heard  only  one  audible  protest  — from  some  one  of  the  news- 
boy order. 

Of  course  few  inhabitants  of  the  town  had  any  notion  of  its  history 
back  of  their  own  lifetime,  nor  any  real  interest  in  abetting  my  in- 
vestigations, though  all  pretended  to  bubble  over  with  enthusiasm  for 
them.  A blank  indifference  hangs  like  moss  over  the  records  of  the 
past  throughout  all  the  Andes,  and  the  curious  traveler  will  find  more 
by  wandering  around  until  he  stumbles  upon  them,  than  by  making 
inquiries.  Not  only  are  the  natives  ignorant  of  all  points  of  historical 
interest,  but  utterly  incapable  of  distinguishing  any  such  from  so 
much  junk.  It  is  just  as  useless  to  call  upon  the  “ representative 
men,”  for  the  minds  of  these  differ  only  in  slight  degree  from  the 
gente  del  pueblo.  Ayacucho  has  more  than  the  usual  excuse  for  this 
ignorance  of  her  past,  however,  for  in  1883  the  Chilians  marched  into 

385 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


the  region,  took  possession  of  the  town,  its  houses,  goods,  and  attrac- 
tive women,  and,  camping  in  the  city  hall  and  the  prefect’s  office, 
boiled  their  soup  over  the  archives.  For  a few  brief  months  before 
their  arrival,  Ayacucho  was  the  proud  capital  of  Peru.  Congress 
held  its  sessions  in  the  old  church  of  San  Augustin  cornering  on  the 
plaza,  and  for  a while  money  was  coined  there. 

Local  information  might  have  ended  with  that,  but  for  the  fact  that 
an  ayacuchano  who  eked  out  an  existence,  Santiago  knows  how,  in  one 
of  the  little  shops  under  the  portales,  was  “ aficionado  ” to  the  history 
of  the  region.  I spent  long  hours  with  him,  for  clients  were  of  scant 
importance  compared  to  his  hobby.  He  was  unshakable  in  his  convic- 
tion that  the  Indian  was  just  as  ambitionless  and  animal-like  in  his 
habits  before  the  Conquest,  as  to-day.  Ayacucho  has  a local  heroine 
in  one  Maria  Parado  de  Bellido  about  whom  already  strange  legends 
have  gathered.  A chola  woman  of  the  middle-class,  who  could  neither 
read  nor  write,  she  took  a leading  part  in  the  revolution  against  Span- 
ish rule.  Having  undertaken  the  delivery  of  a treasonable  letter, 
written  at  her  instigation,  she  was  captured  by  the  Spaniards  and, 
swallowing  the  missive,  refused  to  betray  the  writer,  for  which  hard- 
headedness  she  was  shot  before  the  broad,  central  pillar  of  the  Mu- 
nicipalidad.  This  was  the  scene  of  many  an  execution  in  colonial 
times.  Those  condemned  to  die  were  kept  three  days  in  the  arched 
dungeon  that  forms  a corner  of  the  building,  “ gorged  with  all  spiritual 
and  material  blessings  — peaches  and  beefsteaks  and  the  like,”  as  my 
informant  put  it,  and  then  shot.  He  asserted  that  in  Ayacucho  none 
were  burned  nor  otherwise  executed  by  the  Inquisition.  But  the 
statement  has  not  all  the  earmarks  of  veracity.  Not  only  is  the 
century-faded  edifice  on  the  adjoining  corner  still  known  as  the 
“ Church  of  the  Inquisition,”  but  a city  whose  population  never  ex- 
ceeded 40,000  that  could  build  the  twenty-four  large  churches  and 
countless  chapels  still  existent,  to  say  nothing  of  the  many  that  have 
disappeared,  “just  because  the  priest  of  each  ward  cried,  ‘Come,  let 
us  build  a church ! ’ and  they  came  and  built  it,”  was  not  likely  to  be 
contented  without  seeing  an  occasional  heretic  roasted  in  the  central 
plaza  on  a gala  Sunday  afternoon. 

There  was  one  sight  which  the  “ authorities  ” were  so  bent  on  my 
visiting  and  “ picturing  to  the  world  ” that  the  prefect  detailed  a soldier 
to  accompany  me  to  it.  The  so-called  “ Battle  of  Ayacucho  ” really 
took  place  at  La  Quinua,  on  the  sloping  brown  mountain-flanks  some 
twelve  miles  to  the  northeast  of  the  city.  From  any  high  place 

386 


THE  ROUTE  OF  THE  CONQUISTADORES 


in  town  the  village,  backed  by  its  white  monument  and  the  dark  face 
of  Cundurcunca,  the  “ Condor’s  Nest,”  is  plainly  visible.  One  can 
even  make  out  the  highway  on  which  the  Spanish  veterans  zigzagged 
up  to  the  deep  quebrada  in  which  La  Serna  capitulated,  almost  at  the 
very  hour  that  Phillip  V in  far-off  Spain  was  making  him  “ Duke  of 
the  Andes  ” as  a reward  for  his  victorious  campaign.  There  was  no 
cable  in  those  days.  But  I knew  no  way  of  telling  the  prefect, 
without  insult,  that  I did  not  choose  to  tramp  twenty-four  thirsty, 
earthquake-cracked  miles  to  gaze  upon  a plaster  monument  that  I 
could  study  to  my  heart’s  content  from  where  I sat,  and  I was  re- 
duced to  the  customary  strategy  of  Latin-American  intercourse.  The 
soldier  came  to  wake  me  at  six  — it  is  the  South  American  way  to 
fulfill  only  those  promises  one  hopes  will  be  forgotten.  I greeted  him 
with  the  announcement  that  I had  decided  to  put  off  the  trip  until 
the  following  week.  He  showed  distinct  signs  of  relief  at  not  having 
to  drive  his  legs,  with  heavy,  unaccustomed  shoes  on  the  ends  of  them, 
all  day,  and  as  everything  always  is  postponed  in  Ayacucho,  the  de- 
cision caused  no  surprise. 

“ Is  there  a public  library  in  town?  ” I asked  a native  son. 

“ Como  no!  ” he  cried,  as  if  the  question  were  an  insult  to  the  “ cul- 
ture and  progress  ” for  which  Ayacucho  fancies  itself  famed. 

Following  his  directions,  I hurried  over  to  the  Municipalidad,  cheer- 
ful with  the  prospect  of  spending  a few  quiet  hours  unstared-at  among 
its  books.  For  some  time  I wandered  through  several  refuse-strewn 
patios  and  deep-shaded  corredors  of  the  rambling,  one-story  building, 
peering  into  many  a room  with  uneven  earth  floor,  without  finding 
anything  even  mildly  resembling  a library.  At  length  I stumbled  upon 
a chamber  marked  “ Secretaria,”  in  which  six  men  of  varying  shades 
of  color  were  discussing  the  coming  bull-fight,  rolling  cigarettes,  sleep- 
ing, and  otherwise  earning  their  salaries.  A long  search  brought 
to  light  a ten-inch  key,  and  a procession  of  the  full  municipal  force 
of  Ayacucho  escorted  me  through  several  more  empty,  earth-floored 
rooms  to  a door  at  the  rear  of  the  building. 

“ You  see,”  explained  the  official  with  the  most  nearly  white  collar 
and  the  longest  right  to  keep  his  hat  on,  “we  have  only  just  begun  to 
form  the  library,  so  the  catalogue  is  not  yet  available  nor  any  of  the 
books  arranged.  However.  . . .” 

As  the  time-eaten  sign  over  the  door  announced  that  this  evidence 
of  culture  and  progress  had  only  been  founded  in  1877,  it  was  natural 
that  it  should  not  yet  be  set  in  order.  One  cannot  expect  things  to  be 

387 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


done  in  a minute  in  Latin  America.  The  walls  of  the  stoop-shoul- 
dered mud  room  were  almost  hidden  by  books,  however,  nearly  all 
of  them  bound  in  ancient  parchment  or  imitations  of  the  same.  I 
ran  my  eyes  along  them,  the  six  municipal  employees  grouped  in  a 
staring  semicircle  about  me.  Row  after  row  stretched  books  in  Latin, 
Italian,  Spanish,  and  French,  with  such  titles  as,  “ The  Infallibility  of 
the  Church,”  by  Padre  So-and-So,  “ The  Life  of  Saint  Quien  Sabe,” 
by  “ A Brother  of  the  Order  ” ; but  nowhere  was  there  one  with  a 
suggestion  of  modern  utility. 

“ This  looks  much  like  a priest’s  library,”  I remarked,  when . I had 
read  most  of  the  titles. 

“ Cabalmente,  senor,”  said  the  front-rank  official.  “ Exactly;  it  was 
given  by  the  holy  bishop  who  died  a few  years  ago.  Where  are  those 
friars  who  were  arranging  the  books?”  he  demanded  querulously, 
glaring  at  his  inferiors  grouped  about  us. 

“ I think  they  have  not  come  back  from  lunch  yet,”  tremulously  sug- 
gested one  of  the  five. 

As  the  dust  lay  at  least  an  eighth  of  an  inch  thick  on  every  book  in 
sight,  the  good  friars  must  have  been  called  to  a sumptuous  repast 
indeed. 

“ Is  n’t  there  some  book  in  the  collection  that  will  give  me  something 
of  interest  about  Ayacucho?”  I asked. 

“ Ah  — er  — well,  as  to  that  — ah  — como  no,  senor  — yes,  in- 
deed ! Here  you  have  the  five  volumes  of  Bossuet,  and  — and  here 
is  the  ‘ Imitacion  de  Cristo  ' — very  excellent  — old  parchment,  as  you 
see  — and  . . 

My  slightest  finger  movement  was  followed  by  six  pairs  of  eyes, 
as  closely  as  an  “ aficionado  ” of  the  bull-ring  watches  those  of  his 
favorite  matador.  Had  I found  anything  worth  reading,  I should 
not  have  been  left  in  peace  to  read  it.  First,  because  of  the  excite- 
ment which  the  sight  of  a stranger  arouses  in  Ayacucho,  trebled  by  un- 
bounded wonder  that  any  man  should  be  interested  in  books  and 
libraries ; second,  because  every  Latin-American  knows  that  any  per- 
son left  alone  for  a moment  in  a library  is  sure  to  carry  off  as  many 
books  as  he  can  conceal  about  his  person.  The  most  modern  volumes 
brought  to  light  by  a more  careful  scrutiny  were  Racine’s  works  and 
a Spanish  edition  of  Richardson’s  “ Clarissa  Harlowe  ” ; but  this  last 
I am  sure  some  practical  joker  had  given  the  good  bishop  so  late  in 
life  that  he  had  not  found  time  to  read  and  destroy  it  before  he  was 
called  to  whatever  reward  awaited  him.  We  tiptoed  out  into  the 

388 


THE  ROUTE  OF  THE  CONOUISTADORES 


earth-carpeted  hallway  again,  and  carefully  locked  up  the  dust  and 
parchments,  as  they  will  no  doubt  remain  until  the  worthy  friars 
come  back  from  lunch. 

Around  the  corner  the  cobbled  street  was  blocked  by  a horse- 
shoeing contest.  This  is  always  considered  a very  serious  business  in 
the  Andes,  though  the  average  horse  is  30  small  that  a real  black- 
smith could  toss  him  about  at  will.  A barefoot,  half-Indian  herrero 
had  emerged  from  his  mud  dungeon  shop,  containing  a forge  from 
Vulcan’s  time,  but  by  no  means  the  space  necessary  to  admit  the 
animal,  and  stood  watching  the  preparations  for  his  feat  with  the 
anxious  and  critical  eye  of  an  aviator  about  to  attack  the  world’s 
record.  One  of  the  three  attendant  Indians  threw  his  poncho  over 
the  head  of  the  chusco  and  bound  its  eyes.  Then  a rope  was  drawn 
tightly  around  its  neck,  with  a choking  slip-noose  about  its  nose,  an 
Indian  clinging  desperately  to  the  end  of  it  as  long  as  the  contest 
lasted.  Next,  a llama-hair  lassoo  was  bound  to  the  animal’s  nigh 
front  fetlock  and  the  foot  hoisted  by  another  attendant  on  the  off 
side,  who  used  the  back  of  the  trussed-up  brute  as  a pulley.  A third 
Indian  held  the  foot  by  hand.  When  all  was  ready,  the  valorous 
blacksmith  sneaked  up  and  pared  the  hoof  a bit  with  an  instrument 
much  like  a small,  sharp,  shovel  with  a long  handle  — pared  it  very 
imperfectly,  as  is  the  way  of  Andean  blacksmiths,  leaving  so  much  of 
the  toe  that  the  animal  was  in  constant  danger  of  having  an  ankle 
broken  on  some  rough-and-tumble  trail.  Then  he  hunted  up  a cold 
horseshoe,  without  caulk,  just  as  it  came  from  the  hardware  store 
that  had  imported  it  from  the  United  States — for  the  Andean  black- 
smith never  heats  a shoe,  much  less  alters  it  — and  laid  it  gingerly 
on  the  hoof.  Evidently,  to  the  inexact  eye  of  the  herrero,  it  fitted. 
He  clawed  around  among  the  cobbles  and  refuse  of  the  street,  where  his 
tools  lay  strewn  and  scattered,  until  he  found  several  hand-forged 
horseshoe  nails  of  the  style  in  vogue  in  our  own  land  before  the  Civil 
War,  and  standing  afar  off,  like  a man  willing  to  risk  his  life  to  do 
his  duty,  yet  not  to  risk  it  beyond  reason,  started  one  of  the  nails  with 
a Stone-Age  hammer.  Suddenly  the  foot  twitched.  The  blacksmith 
sprang  backward  a long  yard,  with  blanched  countenance,  the  foot- 
holder  fled,  and  the  two  remaining  Indians  cried  out  in  startled 
Quichua,  while  clinging  to  the  far  ends  of  their  ropes.  Bit  by  bit  the 
herrero  crept  up  again  and  took  to  driving  the  nails  at  long  range,  as 
if  he  were  mashing  the  head  of  a venomous  snake,  poised  on  his  toes, 
ready  to  spring  away  at  the  slightest  sign  of  life  in  the  blindfolded 

389 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


animal.  Gradually  the  eight  nails  were  driven,  not  without  several 
repetitions  of  the  blanching  fright,  and  the  operation  repeated  with 
the  other  hoofs.  Finally  the  blacksmith  manoevered  to  positions  in 
which  he  could  twist  off  and  crudely  clinch  the  protruding  nail-points, 
rubbed  a rasp  once  or  twice  over  them,  and  the  perilous  job  was  done. 
The  fiery  steed  was  relieved  of  the  blinding  poncho,  the  Indians  went 
to  restore  their  nerves  with  a copita  of  pisco,  and  the  blacksmith,  col- 
lecting fifteen  cents  a shoe  from  the  owner  of  the  animal,  shut  up  shop 
forthwith,  as  if  he  had  risked  his  life  enough  for  one  day. 

The  milking  of  a cow  is  a no  less  serious  business  in  the  Andes, 
and  requires  as  large  a force.  First  the  cow  must  be  captured  and 
confined  in  a corral  overnight.  Calves  are  never  weaned,  but  are 
kept  away  from  the  mothers  until  the  hour  of  milking.  As  each 
cow’s  turn  comes,  its  calf  is  freed  for  a moment,  then  dragged  away 
by  main  force,  and  either  tied  to  the  mother's  front  leg,  or  held  by  a 
boy  close  enough  to  deceive  the  animal  into  fancying  she  is  feeding 
her  own  offspring.  Another  youth,  after  tying  her  hind  legs  to- 
gether at  the  ankles,  clings  to  a rope  about  her  neck,  a third  assistant 
holds  a socobe,  or  shallow  gourd-bowl,  under  the  udder,  and  a woman 

— why  it  must  always  be  a woman  I know  not,  but  the  fact  remains 

— squats  on  her  heels  at  arm’s  length  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  ani- 
mal, and  falls  to  milking  with  much  the  same  attentive  regard  for  her 
welfare  as  the  blacksmith.  As  often  as  the  pint-measure  is  filled,  the 
milk  is  poured  into  a vessel  outside  the  fence  or  one  in  the  hands  of 
a waiting  purchaser.  The  woman  or  one  of  the  boys  laps  up  the  few 
drops  left  in  the  socobe,  and  the  task  continues  until  two  teats  are 
stripped.  The  two  remaining  belong  by  ancient  custom  to  the  calf. 
In  view  of  the  fact  that  cows  are  milked  at  most  once  a day,  and  often 
at  irregular  or  broken  intervals,  it  is  not  strange  that  milk  is  rare,  and 
butter  unknown,  even  on  large  haciendas  well  stocked  with  cattle. 

Saturday  is  beggar’s  day  in  Ayacucho,  as  in  most  towns  of  South 
America.  From  morning  till  night  a constant  procession  of  disease 
and  decrepitude  comes  whining  by  the  shops,  so  endless  in  its  appeals 
that  the  town  has  adopted  a custom  similar  to  the  merchants  of  India 
with  their  bowls  of  cowries,  or  sea-shells.  On  Saturday  morning  each 
shopkeeper  opens  a package  of  large  needles,  three  to  four  inches 
long,  one  of  which  he  bestows  upon  each  beggar  who  presents  him- 
self. The  mendicant  mumbles  a “ Dios  pagarasunqui,”  and  shuffles 
on  to  the  next  doorway.  When  he  has  collected  ten  or  twelve  needles, 
if  he  be  so  lucky,  he  sells  them  to  certain  dealers  for  a medio  (2^ 

390 


THE  ROUTE  OF  THE  CONOUISTADORES 


cents),  on  which,  apparently,  he  lives  until  the  next  Saturday.  In 
some  parts  of  Peru  the  Indians  wear  a large  needle  in  their  hat- 
bands, evidently  as  a weapon  of  defense,  but  those  of  Ayacucho  seem 
to  have  no  practical  use,  except  as  legal  tender.  Some  time  during 
the  ensuing  week  the  purchasers  sell  them  back  to  the  shopkeepers, 
Saturday  sees  them  again  distributed,  and  so  they  go  on  indefinitely 
around  the  circle. 

Among  other  things  of  long  ago  Ayacucho  used  to  have  a uni- 
versity. To-day  her  highest  institution  of  learning  is  the  Colegio 
Nacional  de  San  Roman,  corresponding  to  our  high  schools  — chiefly 
in  the  impudence  of  its  pupils.  It  was  for  the  purpose  of  supplying 
this  institution  with  an  athletic  field  — incongruous  possession  it 
seemed  in  this  community  — that  a “ benefit  ” bull-fight  was  perpe- 
trated on  the  Sunday  of  my  stay.  The  cuadrilla,  headed  by  “ Cur- 
rito  ” and  “ Ramito  ” of  Sevilla,  my  fellow-sufferers  at  the  hotel,  were 
the  same  simple-hearted,  modest  fellows,  with  a noisy  joy  in  life, 
that  I had  found  most  of  their  fellows  in  Spain.  Both  the  principals 
had  come  over  with  Posadas,  one  of  the  friends  of  my  Spanish 
journey,  who  had  returned  a year  later  only  to  be  killed  by  a “ Miura,” 
while  these  his  companions  remained  to  eke  out  a livelihood  in  Chile, 
Peru,  and  Bolivia. 

All  the  gente  decente  of  Ayacucho  and  their  wives,  in  full  powder, 
were  on  hand  when  the  gala  corrida  began.  We  of  the  elite  occu- 
pied the  “ palcos,”  or  boxes  — several  rows  of  chairs  shaded  by  a faded 
strip  of  canvas,  up  on  the  roof  of  the  ancient  colegio,  the  aged  red 
tiles  of  which  were  trodden  to  powder  underfoot.  The  “ ring  ” in 
the  patio  below,  fenced  by  poles  tied  to  uprights  and  other  rustic  make- 
shifts, was  surrounded  by  the  excited  gente  del  pueblo.  The  scene  was 
backed  by  a massive,  old,  crumbling  church  — it  would  have  been  hard 
to  avoid  such  a backing  in  Ayacucho  — and  a view  of  most  of  the 
town  sprinkled  away  through'  its  half-green  valley,  Rasuillca,  the  snow- 
clad,  and  the  black  range  of  Cundurcunca,  with  its  white  battle  monu- 
ment and  its  highway  zigzagging  away  over  into  the  great  Amazonian 
montana  beyond  as  plainly  visible  as  if  they  stood  a bare  mile  away. 
The  exciting  national  sport  of  Spain  degenerates  at  best  to  a dismal 
pastime  in  the  new  world.  The  imported  toreros  were  well  enough, 
but  the  bulls  of  the  Andes  leave  much  to  be  desired.  Even  dogs  lose 
their  aggressiveness  in  high  altitudes,  it  is  said.  At  any  rate,  the 
animals  gathered  for  the  occasion  on  the  broad  pampas  at  the  foot  of 
Cundurcunca  could  seldom  be  roused  to  face  the  toreros,  and  spent 

391 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


their  efforts  chiefly  in  racing  around  the  “ ring  ” in  vain  efforts  to 
escape,  until  they  were  at  length  tortured  out  of  existence.  In  fact, 
about  all  the  gala  corrida  amounted  to  was  the  substitution  of  these 
heroes  from  across  the  seas  for  the  native  butchers  accustomed  to 
prepare  Ayachucho’s  weekly  meat  supply.  As  they  fell,  the  animals 
were  dragged  out  and  cut  up  within  full  sight  of  the  crowd,  the  meat 
in  some  cases  being  raffled  off  to  the  ticket-holders  of  the  sol.  It  was 
the  dragging-out  that  the  gathering  hooted  most  vociferously.  Pica- 
dores  and  horses  are  rarely  in  evidence  in  the  bull-fights  of  Spanish- 
America,  but  the  program  had  featured  the  promise  of  removing  the 
carcasses  from  the  ring  “ al  estilo  de  Espana,”  that  is,  by  gaily  capari- 
soned mules.  It  was  this  new  evidence  of  culture  and  progress  that 
much  of  Ayacucho  had  come  to  see.  But  when  the  first  victim 
sprawled  in  the  dust,  the  mules  were  missing,  and  the  customary  gang 
of  Indians  crawled  through  the  barrier  and,  tugging  at  its  tail  and 
legs,  and  raising  clouds  of  dust  that  half-concealed  their  activities, 
gradually  removed  the  fallen  brute  in  the  time-honored  Andean 
manner. 

As  the  supply  of  meat  promised  to  exceed  the  demand,  the  fifth  and 
sixth  bulls  were  merely  decorated  with  banderillas  and  sent  back  to 
the  corral.  Then  a pair  of  two-year-old  novillos  were  turned  over  to 
the  “ aficionados.”  A dozen  youths  of  the  “ best  families  ” descended 
into  the  “ ring,”  in  their  most  impressive  Sunday  garb  and  with  capotes 
borrowed  from  the  toreros,  and  demonstrated  their  own  skill  as  bull- 
fighters. A Dr.  Fulano,  in  private  life  a civil  engineer,  at  least  on  his 
visiting-card,  killed  the  first  of  the  frightened  animals  in  admirable 
style,  and  was  hailed  by  his  delighted  fellow-townsmen  the  king  of 
matadores.  But  dusk  had  fallen  before  the  amateurs  had  effectively 
wounded  the  other,  and  the  massed  population  gradually  radiated 
homeward  and  subsided  into  its  humdrum  weekly  existence. 

I have  come  near  overlooking  the  most  striking  thing  in  Ayacucho, 
— the  head-dress  of  its  women.  In  the  Andes  fashions  change  not 
with  time,  but  with  place.  In  Inca  days  each  district  had  its  own  dis- 
tinctive garb,  or  at  least  head-gear,  a custom  which  was  strictly  en- 
forced in  colonial  times,  in  order  that  Indians  belonging  to  one  province 
might  not  escape  compulsory  labor  by  going  to  another.  What  a con- 
venience it  would  be  in  our  own  land  if  we  could  recognize  each  man’s 
place  of  birth  by  the  shape  or  color  of  his  derby!  The  bonnets  of 
Ayacucho  are  hard  to  believe.  Though  I had  been  duly  warned  in 
advance,  the  first  glimpse  of  an  ayacuchana  caught  me  unawares.  I 

392 


A religious  procession  in  the  main  square  of  Ayacucho.  When  the  leading  figure  reached 
certain  points,  an  old  Indian  set  off  elaborate  pieces  of  fireworks,  and  as 
the  smoke  cleared  away  scores  of  urchins  dashed  in  to  fight 
with  the  Indian  and  one  another  for  the  frame-work 


A gala  Sunday  in  the  improvised  “bullring”  of  Ayacucho,  in  the  patio  of  the  Colegio , or 
high  school,  for  the  benefit  of  which  the  corrida  was  given.  The  chief 
toreros  are  Spanish,  and  the  mountain  bulls  are  at  best 
somewhat  lacking  in  ferocity 


THE  ROUTE  OF  THE  CONQUISTADORES 


fancied  she  was  carrying  home  some  purchase  on  her  head.  When 
others  like  her  began  to  appear  from  all  directions,  however,  I recalled 
to  what  lengths  fair  woman  will  go  to  keep  in  fashion.  The  wildest 
nightmares  perpetrated  by  the  milliners  of  more  familiar  lands  by  no 
means  come  so  perilously  near  reducing  the  mere  male  beholder  to 
hysterics  as  this,  which  at  first  sight  gives  a suggestion  of  that  thrill  the 
traveler  to  Mars  might  experience  at  coming  suddenly  face  to  face  with 
something  totally  new  and  unprecedented.  The  rank  and  file  of  Aya- 
cucho  women  wear  on  their  heads  a blanket,  gay  in  hue  and  large 
enough  to  serve  as  a bedspread,  nicely  folded  in  triangular  form,  with 
one  sharp  corner  protruding  over  the  face.  Each  one  is  distinct  in 
color,  with  an  embroidered  border,  and  is  usually  lined  with  silk. 
Even  the  half-Indian  women  from  the  suburbs,  driving  to  market 
donkeys  all  but  hidden  under  loads  of  alfalfa  — each  burden  protected 
from  its  hungry  carrier  by  a large  wooden  gag  in  the  animal’s  mouth  — 
balance  this  contraption  on  their  heads  through  all  their  labors.  No 
one  in  Ayacucho  could  tell  me  the  origin  of  so  absurd  a fashion,  though 
all  were  agreed  it  had  been  in  vogue  a very  long  time;  nor  had  any  of 
them  ever  developed  enough  curiosity  to  enquire,  except  the  prefect,  a 
newcomer  in  this  region,  who  had  investigated  in  vain. 

Anchorena,  the  piano  importer,  had  promised  on  his  Caballero  honor 
to  have  Chusquito  back  in  the  hotel  patio  on  Sunday  night,  that  I 
might  continue  my  journey  at  dawn.  Knowing  only  too  well  the 
nebulous  stuff  of  which  Latin-American  promises  are  made,  I set  out 
on  Saturday  to  jog  his  memory.  The  houses  of  Ayacucho  are  not 
numbered,  but  the  thumping  of  a piano  in  the  throes  of  amateur  tuning 
easily  guided  me  to  the  lawyer’s  dwelling.  Surrounded  by  the  gaudily 
overdecorated  magnificence  of  his  parlor,  he  laughed  at  my  absurd 
misgivings  and  repeated  his  “ palabra  de  caballero.”  Yet  when  night 
fell  on  Sunday,  no  horse  had  appeared.  I hurried  back  to  the  Ancho- 
rena residence.  The  lawyer  received  me  with  that  complacent  indif- 
ference to  his  plighted  word,  without  even  an  attempt  to  excuse  him- 
self, which  is  common  to  his  race.  As  in  the  days  of  the  Conquest, 
when  betrayal  was  an  everyday  affair,  the  word  of  the  most  important 
resident  of  the  Andes  is  not  worth  the  breath  required  to  utter  it.  Most 
annoying  of  all,  they  treat  any  protest  against  their  devotion  to 
manana  as  a gringo  weakness  they  must  put  up  with,  but  to  which  they 
hope  never  to  fall  victims  themselves.  Even  as  they  listen,  a sneaking 
smile  lurks  just  behind  their  solemn  countenances,  as  if  they  were 
hearing  the  plaints  of  a querulous  child.  Were  we  in  this  world 

393 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


merely  to  see  how  easily  we  could  drift  through  it,  the  Andean  point 
of  view  would  be  superb;  to  those  of  us  burdened  with  the  notion  that 
we  are  here  to  get  some  little  thing  done,  it  is  maddening. 

“ Team  ess  mo-nay,  eh?”  squeaked  the  lawyer,  with  a condescend- 
ing smirk.  “If  the  horse  does  not  arrive  to-night,  perhaps  it  will  come 
to-morrow ; or  if  not,  what  is  the  difference  whether  you  go  to-morrow, 
or  the  day  after?  ” 

“ The  difference,  my  friend,  between  an  American  and  a Latin- 
American,”  I could  not  refrain  from  replying,  “ and  may  it  ever  grow 
wider.” 

Thus,  when  I would  gladly  have  added  Ayacucho  to  my  past,  I found 
myself  helpless  to  advance,  for  the  lawyer  would  not  even  direct  me 
to  his  estate,  that  I might  bring  the  animal  myself.  The  next  after- 
noon an  Indian  arrived  from  the  hacienda  — with  the  wrong  horse. 
I joined  the  bull-fighters,  strolling  about  town  with  the  Monday  lan- 
guor customary  to  their  profession,  and  whiled  away  several  more 
funereal  hours.  Then  at  dusk  I returned  to  the  hotel,  to  find  Chus- 
quito  lounging  against  a pillar  in  front  of  my  door,  looking  not  an 
inch  rounder  for  all  the  “ very  rich  feed  ” with  which  the  hacienda 
was  reputed  to  abound.  The  way  he  fell  upon  a bundle  of  alfalfa, 
bought  of  the  Indian  woman  and  girl  who  sleep  on  the  cobblestones 
of  Santo  Domingo  plaza  beside  a heap  of  it,  suggested  that  he  had 
spent  the  week  grazing  on  bare  ground.  Yet  the  Indian  who  brought 
him  had  presented  an  exorbitant  bill  for  his  accommodation  from  the 
sister  of  the  man  who  had  implored  the  honor  of  giving  him  free  pas- 
ture on  his  own  hacienda. 

I was  awake  at  four — for  religious  reasons  — and  by  the  time  the 
birds  in  the  trees  began  to  twitter  we  had  left  the  acknowledged  ceme- 
tery of  Dead  Man’s  Corner  behind,  and  were  climbing  away  toward 
the  sunrise.  The  road,  true  to  its  Latin-American  environment,  left 
town  with  great  enthusiasm,  but  soon  petered  out  to  a wearisome 
trail.  Of  several  villages  of  Indians  noted  for  their  passive  resistance 
to  all  the  demands  of  the  traveler,  the  most  typical  was  Ocros.  We 
came  out  far  above  it  one  morning,  on  the  lofty  crest  of  a range  from 
which  the  trail  pitched  for  a time  blindly  down  into  a vast  sea  of  mist 
hiding  all  the  unknown  world  before  us.  Bit  by  bit  vast  rocks  loomed 
up  out  of  the  fog,  like  black,  misshapen  giants ; then  huts  appeared 
once  more,  with  here  and  there  an  Indian  plowing  a bit  of  hillside  with 
a wooden  stick  and  a pair  of  oxen  he  seemed  in  constant  peril  of  sud- 
denly losing  down  the  sheer  mountain-side.  Then  at  last  the  mist 

394 


THE  ROUTE  OF  THE  CONQUISTADORES 

cleared  and  disclosed,  cramped  in  its  narrow  vale  far  below  among 
dwarf  trees,  a town  which  rose  gradually  up  to  us,  and  at  noon,  after 
all  but  losing  Chusquito  and  my  other  worldly  belongings  through  a 
dirt-and-branch  bridge  that  showed  no  sign  of  having  been  condemned 
until  we  were  upon  it,  I halted  at  the  hut  of  the  gobernador.  He  was 
out  — which  probably  meant  that  he  was  hiding  in  one  of  the  half- 
dozen  ancient  mud  structures  that  surrounded  his  corral  — and  his 
females  were  taciturn.  I displayed  my  government  order  and  asked  to 
have  food  prepared. 

“ Manam  cancha,”  mumbled  one  of  the  women,  all  of  whom  kept 
silently  and  impassively  at  work  with  their  primitive  spindles. 

“ I must  have  fodder  for  the  animalito,”  I protested. 

“ Manam  cancha,”  came  the  monotonous  answer  again,  with  that  in- 
flection peculiar  to  the  Andean  Indian,  which  seems  to  say,  “ There 
isn’t  any;  but  there  might  be  if  I felt  like  going  to  get  it.”  I should 
have  preferred  hunger  to  a scene,  but  I declined  to  allow  anyone  out 
of  mere  apathy  to  starve  Chusquito. 

“ Manam  cancha,  eh  ? ” I cried,  snatching  the  grass  roof  off  a 
chicken-coop  and  tossing  it  before  the  animal.  Sentimentalists  to  the 
contrary  notwithstanding,  the  surest  way  to  impress  an  Andean  Indian 
is  to  appeal  to  force.  Gradually  the  most  democratic  traveler  learns 
to  adopt  the  native  habit  of  addressing  him  as  “ tu,”  and  to  treat  him 
like  the  balky  domestic  animal  he  so  closely  resembles.  I picked  up  a 
boy  from  behind  the  mud  wall  surrounding  the  females,  and  thrust- 
ing a coin  upon  him,  ordered  him  to  go  and  buy  eggs.  Once  the 
traveler  can  force  money  into  an  Indian’s  possession,  his  prospects  of 
provisions  brighten,  for  it  is  as  easy  for  the  latter  to  produce  them  as  to 
come  and  return  the  coin.  The  eggs  were  soon  forthcoming  and, 
taking  possession  of  a table  under  the  projecting  roof  and  marching 
into  the  kitchen  for  water,  I lighted  my  rum-burner  and  fell  to  pre- 
paring a meal.  By  the  time  I had  effectively  demonstrated  my  im- 
portance, the  same  woman  who  had  “ manam  cancha-ed  ” me  in  the 
beginning  came  to  say  that  if  I would  give  her  a medio  she  would  buy 
fodder ; and  a few  moments  later  she  returned,  carrying  in  her  own 
arms  a huge  bundle  of  chala,  or  dry  cornstalks,  over  which  Chusquito 
struggled  during  the  rest  of  our  stay  in  competition  with  the  family 
calf,  pigs,  and  chickens. 

It  was  probably  as  much  out  of  a desire  to  inspect  my  cooking  outfit 
as  fear  for  her  chicken-coops  that  had  won  me  attendance.  Behind 
the  mask  that  hides  his  emotions  the  Indian  of  the  Andes  is  filled  with 

395 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


curiosity.  There  runs  an  Andean  anecdote  that  well  illustrates  this 
characteristic.  One  of  their  own  race,  who  had  served  in  the  army 
and  learned  other  things  without  forgetting  the  ways  of  his  own 
people,  came  at  night  to  an  Indian  hut  and  requested  lodging.  When 
this  was  granted  in  the  customary  manner  — merely  by  not  being  re- 
fused — he  asked  for  food. 

“ Manam  cancha,”  came  the  expected  reply. 

“ Well,  sell  me  something  and  I will  cook  for  myself.” 

“ Manam  cancha.” 

The  soldier  was  well  aware  that  there  were  plenty  of  supplies  hid- 
den away  in  the  hut.  He  knew,  also,  the  Indian  temperament. 

“ Well,  I suppose  I ’ll  have  to  get  along  on  a chupe  de  guijarros,” 
he  sighed,  using  Spanish  to  make  his  speech  more  impressive. 

“ A stone  soup ! ” murmured  the  household,  betrayed  by  astonish- 
ment into  understanding  a tongue  they  pretended  not  to  know. 

“ Yes,  it  is  what  we  use  in  the  army  when  there  is  nothing  better.” 

He  wandered  down  to  the  mountain  stream  below  the  hut  and,  re- 
turning with  a dozen  large  smooth  pebbles,  washed  them  carefully,  and 
laid  them  out  on  his  bundle. 

“You  won’t  mind  lending  me  an  olla?”  he  murmured  to  the  wall 
of  expressionless  faces  about  him. 

A woman  brought  the  kettle  in  silence.  The  soldier,  humming  a 
barrack-room  ballad,  half-filled  the  pot  with  water,  set  it  over  the  fire, 
dropped  in  the  stones  one  by  one,  and  squatted  on  his  heels  with  a 
sigh  of  contentment.  By  and  by  he  borrowed  a wooden  spoon  and 
tasted  the  concoction  from  time  to  time,  throwing  the  residue  back 
into  the  kettle  in  approved  Andean  fashion. 

“You  don’t  happen  to  have  a bit  of  salt?”  he  murmured,  after  a 
time,  to  the  family  now  gathered  close  around  him  watching  this  pos- 
sible miracle  silently  but  intently. 

“ Cachi  ? That  we  have,”  said  the  woman,  handing  him  a piece  of 
purple  rock,  which  he  beat  up  and  sprinkled  into  the  now  steaming  pot. 

“ Too  bad  I have  n’t  a few  potatoes  to  put  in,”  he  droned,  as  if  to 
himself,  “ it  would  help  the  flavor.” 

The  old  woman  shambled  away  into  the  darkness  of  a far  corner, 
and  came  back  some  time  later  to  thrust  silently  toward  him  a handful 
of  small  potatoes,  her  eyes  glued  on  the  miraculous  pot.  When  these 
were  about  half-boiled  the  soldier  again  broke  off  his  song  to  murmur: 

“ This  is  going  to  be  one  of  the  finest  chupes  de  guijarros  I ’ve  ever 
made.  All  it  lacks  now  is  a bit  of  aji  to  give  it  life.” 

396 


THE  ROUTE  OF  THE  CONOUISTADORES 


The  old  woman  muttered  something  to  one  of  the  ragged  girls  beside 
her,  and  the  latter  went  to  dig  two  red  peppers  out  of  the  thatch. 

“ A piece  of  cabbage  would  make  it  perfect,”  sighed  the  soldier. 

The  Indians,  too  engrossed  in  the  production  of  a stone  soup,  and  too 
slow  of  mind  to  have  caught  up  yet  with  the  course  of  events,  brought 
to  light  a small  cabbage.  By  this  time  they  were  so  consumed  with 
curiosity  that  the  old  man  asked  innocently : 

“ But  do  you  make  a stone  soup  without  meat?  ” 

“ Ah,  to  be  sure,  a strip  of  charqui  always  improves  it,”  replied  the 
soldier  indifferently,  “ but  . . .” 

A girl  was  sent  to  fetch  a sheet  of  sun-dried  beef,  which  the  former 
conscript  cut  up  slowly  and  dropped  bit  by  bit  into  the  now  savory- 
smelling chupe.  A half-hour  later  he  lifted  the  kettle  off  the  fire,  the 
old  woman  handed  him  a gourd  plate,  and  some  cold  boiled  yuca  as 
bread,  and  having  given  half  of  it  to  the  family,  he  ate  the  stone  soup 
with  great  relish  — all  except  the  dozen  smooth,  round  stones  at  the 
bottom  of  the  olla. 

All  that  afternoon  we  slipped  and  slid  down  a half-perpendicular 
stone-quarry,  that  bruised  my  toes  if  not  Chusquito’s,  into  a repulsive 
molle-  and  cactus-grown  desert  in  which  a tropical  sun  blazed  with 
homicidal  intensity.  No  wonder  its  blistering  rays  faded  the  made-in- 
Germany  cloth  of  my  Ayacucho-tailored  breeches,  when  it  bleached 
even  Chusquito’s  coat  to  a pale,  reddish  yellow.  Had  I not  come  upon 
an  isolated  hut  and  a gourdful  of  chicha  de  jora  just  when  I did,  it  is 
by  no  means  certain  that  I should  not  have  perished  of  thirst  before 
the  day  was  done.  The  “ Hacienda  Pajo  nal,”  in  the  valley  of  the 
Pampas  river  where  sunset  overtook  us,  was  in  charge  of  a white  and 
cultured  woman  engaged  in  the  inviting  occupation  of  dealing  out  to 
half-drunken  Indians  the  concentrated  sugar-cane  juice  of  a large 
hogshead  in  the  liquor  room.  The  husband,  who  loomed  up  through 
the  tropical  twilight,  was  the  graduate  of  an  American  agricultural 
college ; but  the  hacienda,  under  charge  of  his  Quichua-speaking 
mayordomo,  was  farmed  in  the  same  backward  manner  as  in  the  times 
of  the  Incas,  without  even  their  energy,  and  his  foreign  training  had 
given  him  no  inkling  of  the  proper  occupation  for  wives.  Nor  did  he 
give  any  evidence  of  ability  to  speak  English.  After  the  patriarchial 
supper  around  a long,  rough-hewn  table,  he  set  in  motion  a large  phono- 
graph, and  we  heard  not  only  the  best  opera  stars  of  the  day,  but  such 
exotic  selections  as  “ The  Old  Gray  Bonnet,”  and  a tale  of  love  and 
moonlight  along  the  Wabash.  A veritable  crowd  of  arrieros  and  low- 

397 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


caste  native  travelers,  who  had  made  this  their  night’s  stopping  place, 
and  the  uncouth  Indian  laborers  of  the  hacienda,  gathered  on  the  edge 
of  the  darkness  and  stood  like  statues  as  long  as  the  entertainment 
lasted.  Evidently  they  were  amused,  or  they  would  not  have  re- 
mained; but  the  absolute  stoniness  of  their  expression,  without  the 
faintest  outward  evidence  of  pleasure,  would  have  brought  dismay  to 
a living  entertainer.  We  had  dropped  again  into  a genuine  tier r a 
calicnte,  warm  as  the  Cauca  valley,  where  tiny  gnats  decorated  my  skin 
with  an  annoyance  that  was  to  last  for  days  to  come ; and  though  I 
was  favored  with  the  guest-room  all  important  Peruvian  haciendas  pro- 
vide for  travelers,  the  corredor  outside  my  door,  and  all  the  neigh- 
boring patios  and  corrals  was  strewn  with  Indians  of  both  sexes, 
stretched  out  among  their  bales  and  trappings. 

An  hour  or  more  next  morning  along  the  flat  river-bottom  planted 
with  sugar-cane  brought  us  to  one  of  those  swaying  bridges  over  a 
roaring  stream  compressed  between  precipitous  rock-walls,  so  numer- 
ous in  the  time  of  the  Incas.  But  instead  of  woven  willow  withes,  it 
was  supported  by  cables  and,  as  if  to  recall  the  provident  Incas  by 
contrast,  was  sadly  in  need  of  the  repair  that  had  just  begun.  Chus- 
quito  crossed  the  precarious  contraption  only  under  protest,  after  the 
application  of  more  than  moral  suasion,  and  on  the  slanting  and  broken 
cross-slats  I kept  my  own  footing  with  difficulty.  Had  he  been  more 
than  a boy's  size  horse,  we  should  have  been  held  up  at  the  edge  of 
the  gorge  for  days,  until  the  languid  workmen  finished  their  task.  We 
were  now  in  the  department  of  Apurimac.  Some  miles  further  along 
the  river,  through  a sandy  wilderness  of  organ-cactus  noisy  with 
flocks  of  screaming  green  parrots,  the  trail  struck  upward  on  the 
famous  ascent  of  Bombon.  It  was  another  of  those  infernally  stony, 
endless,  blazing,  absolutely  waterless  climbs  that  must  be  endured 
wherever  a river  has  cut  its  way  deep  into  the  Andes,  requiring  a day 
of  laborious  toil  to  advance  a few  miles  across  a chasm  that  might 
almost  be  bridged.  Even  Chusquito  seemed  ready  to  stretch  out  on 
his  back  when  at  last  we  reached  the  summit,  the  lofty  plateau  again 
spreading  away  cool  and  inviting  before  us. 

In  Chincheros  the  gobernador  attempted  at  first  to  deny  the  honor, 
but  being  caught  in  the  act,  as  it  were,  accepted  the  situation  with 
good  grace,  as  became  a caballero  of  considerable  Spanish  ancestry. 
In  the  black  shale  of  his  back  corredor  all  the  local  “ authorities  ” were 
gathered  about  a long  table  that  groaned  as  with  the  gout  each  time  any 
of  its  legs  was  subjected  to  undue  weight,  their  state  papers,  seals,  and 

398 


THE  ROUTE  OF  THE  CONQUISTADORES 

ink-horns,  and  a goodly  array  of  large  ill-scented  bottles  spread 
out  before  them.  When  he  had  spelled  out  my  papers,  the  gobernador 
invited  me  to  make  the  veranda  my  home  as  long  as  I chose  to  grace 
Chincheros  with  my  gnat-bitten  countenance,  and  I spent  what  re- 
mained of  the  day  amid  a mixture  of  chicha,  pisco,  and  justice.  A 
fully  sober  person  was  not  to  be  expected  at  that  hour  in  Peru,  but  the 
“ authorities  ” were  still  sufficiently  aware  of  the  dignity  of  their 
position  to  whisk  the  bottles  out  of  sight  when  I prepared  to  photograph 
the  group.  That  an  andarin  should  not  present  a book  for  their 
seals  and  signatures  they  took  as  a slight,  and  I was  forced  to  submit 
several  pages  of  my  note-book  to  their  official  decoration.  During  all 
the  rest  of  the  afternoon  Indians  and  half-Indians  came  slinking  in 
before  the  authoritative  crowd,  one  of  whom  was  a notary  public,  to 
mumble  their  petitions  or  complaints  with  many  a cringing  “ tayta- 
tayta,”  and  the  air  of  slaves  before  ill-tempered  masters.  The  other- 
wise subservient  proceedings  were  broken  once  by  a wordy  passage-at- 
arms  between  the  gobernador  and  an  aged  caballero  dressed  in  rags 
and  pride,  who  bade  a formal  farewell  to  the  women  of  the  family  and 
other  officials,  but  left  without  the  customary  handshake  with  the 
gobernador,  marking  this  as  the  most  serious  quarrel  I had  yet  wit- 
nessed in  South  America.  When  the  business  of  the  day  was  over, 
the  mellow-conditioned  “authorities”  all  joined  in  a game  of 
“ quoits,”  with  silver  soles  in  place  of  horseshoes,  to  determine  which 
of  them  should  supply  the  wine  that  topped  off  the  festivities.  The 
family  supper  was  served  on  the  table  so  recently  occupied  by  the 
affairs  of  justice,  and  I spread  my  bed  on  two  of  the  benches  that  had 
sustained  the  weight  of  the  august  judges.  Here  and  there  on  the 
mud  floor  of  the  court-room  an  Indian  slept,  curled  up  like  a contented 
yellow  dog  on  a bundle  of  rags  or  corn-stalks. 

I had  assigned  to  the  long,  hard  day  across  the  great  range  beyond 
Chincheros  the  experience  of  chewing  coca,  said  to  sustain  the  Andean 
Indian  on  his  laborious  journeyings.  As  we  undulated  across  the 
barren,  brown  top  of  the  world,  I began  feeding  myself  leaf  by  leaf, 
adhering  strictly  to  the  accepted  rules  of  this  indigenous  sport,  until 
I had  formed  a bulging  cud  in  my  right  cheek  — the  left  is  also  per- 
mitted by  the  rules.  The  taste  was  not  unlike  that  of  dry  hay.  Then 
I bit  off  several  nibbles  of  lime  from  the  burnt  stone  I had  bought  in 
the  market  of  Huancayo  and,  mixing  it  with  the  leaves,  began  to  chew. 
The  only  sensation  I was  clearly  aware  of  was  that  the  lime  burned 
my  gums  atrociously,  as  it  would  have  done  had  the  coca  leaf  never 

399 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


been  discovered.  I am  not  sure  that  1 did  not  feel  a slight  increase  in 
exhilaration  that  caused  me  to  lift  my  feet  a trifle  faster;  but  this  may 
easily  have  been  due  to  the  beauty  of  the  scene  that  stretched  to 
infinity  on  every  hand,  for  even  Chusquito  seemed  inspired  to  bestir 
his  dainty  hoofs  with  more  than  his  accustomed  sprightliness. 

The  hazy  valley  of  the  Pampas  river  with  its  biting  gnats  had  dis- 
appeared into  the  past,  and  only  the  bare,  brown  world  spread  before 
us  to  a far  distant  horizon  that  seemed  to  move  forward  as  we  ad- 
vanced. Small  wonder  the  natives  were  astonished  that  I kept  the 
road.  I could  not  but  be  surprised  myself  that  instinct  and  the  slight  • 
assistance  of  my  pocket-compass  guided  me  aright  across  this  deathly- 
still,  unpeopled  mountain-top,  where  the  traveler  must  constantly 
watch  the  faintly  marked  path,  lest  it  take  advantage  of  the  briefest  in- 
attention to  dodge  from  under  his  feet  and  leave  him  hopelessly 
stranded  high  up  on  a dreary  puna  trackless  as  the  sea  itself.  On 
these  shelterless  heights  it  was  easy  to  understand  why  each  succeed- 
ing town  had  watched  my  departure  with  gaping  mouths,  and  that  the 
boldest  inhabitants  had  cried  out:  “ Nosotros,  aunque  hijos  del  pais, 

no  nos  aventuremos  hasta  el  Cuzco  sin  guia ! — Even  we,  sons  of  the 
country,  would  not  adventure  ourselves  to  Cuzco  without  a guide!  ” 

But  luck  was  with  me.  The  dull-yellow  world  began  to  subside  at 
last,  and  we  came  out  far  above  a long,  winding  valley,  in  the  dim  end 
of  which  I could  make  out  a green  speck  that  was  evidently  that  very 
Andahuaylas  toward  which  we  were  headed.  Far  away,  in  the  same 
direction  which  I must  follow  to  reach  the  Navel  of  the  Inca  Empire, 
were  tooth-shaped  peaks,  slightly  snowclad,  hung  high  in  the  sky,  and 
below,  and  about,  and  beyond  them  to  the  ends  of  the  earth,  the  sugges- 
tion, rather  than  the  actual  sight,  of  such  a labyrinth  of  ranges  as  only 
the  disordered  imagination  seemed  capable  of  creating.  We  began  to 
go  down  and  forever  down,  so  swiftly  that  we  could  have  kicked  each 
other  in  our  disgust,  now  slipping  and  stumbling  along  toboggans  of 
loose  stones,  now  picking  our  way  step  by  step  down  natural  rock 
stairs,  then  descending  across  steep  meadows  of  mountain  grass  on 
which  Chusquito,  with  his  caulkless  shoes,  gave  a ludicrous  suggestion 
of  some  silly  fellow  attempting  to  skate  on  all  fours.  At  length  the 
slope  moderated  its  pace  and  took  on  a thin  garb  of  trees  and  vegeta- 
tion, the  mountain-tops  on  which  we  had  been  walking  a bare  two 
hours  before  now  towering  into  the  sky  above.  Below  the  village  of 
Moyabamba,  so  renowned  for  its  horse-stealing  that  we  lost  no  time  in 
leaving  it  behind  us,  the  valley  narrowed  to  a gorge,  in  which  our 

400 


• A familiar  sight  in  the  Andes, — a recently  butchered  beef  hung  in  sheets  along  the 
clothes-line  to  sun-dry  into  charqui , the  soleleather-like  imitation  of  food 
on  which  the  Andean  traveler  is  often  forced  to  subsist 


A typical  “bed”  in  the  guest-room  provided  for  travelers  by  many  Peruvian  hacendados, — 
to  wit:  a stone  or  adobe  divan  on  which  the  traveler  may  spread  whatever  bedding 
he  brings  with  him.  Note  my  alforjas , kitchenette,  and  bottle  of  fuel.  An 
auto-picture  taken  by  pinning  a flash  sheet  on  the  opposite  wall 


THE  ROUTE  OF  THE  CONQUISTADORES 


progress  was  blocked  by  a mule-train  of  lea  wine.  I fell  in  with  the 
chief  arriero  at  the  rear,  and  plodded  with  him  in  the  cloud  of  dust 
rising  behind  the  shuffling  mules  like  the  mists  of  the  morning  from 
some  seaside  valley.  Each  of  the  animals  bore  two  kegs  of  wine 
nicely  balanced  on  his  sawbuck-shaped  pack-saddle,  a total  weight  of 
250  pounds.  The  journey  from  lea  to  Andahuaylas  averaged  from 
three  weeks  to  a month,  the  entire  cost  of  transportation  about  $7.50 
for  each  animal.  In  the  morning,  horsemen  and  pedestrians  formed 
an  almost  unbroken  procession  along  the  rich  and  thickly  inhabited 
valley  of  the  little  Chumbau  river,  for  all  the  league  from  Talavera  to 
the  straggling  town  of  Andahuaylas. 

Manuel  Richter,  addressee  of  my  letter,  kept  a little  general-store 
on  a corner  of  the  plaza.  Chusquito  and  I waited  in  the  streak  of 
shade  before  his  shop  until  he  had  spelled  out  the  missive  with  Teu- 
tonic deliberation,  in  marked  contrast  to  the  Latin-American  quick- 
ness of  welcome,  which  almost  as  quickly  explodes  into  thin  air.  Our 
new  host  had  first  emigrated  forty  years  before  from  Poland  to  New 
York,  where  he  had  lived  several  months  in  “ Ghe-r-reen  Schtreet,”  a 
fact  he  never  lost  an  opportunity  to  mention,  evidently  under  the  im- 
pression that  it  was  still  the  aristocratic  center  of  the  city.  During  that 
time  he  had  worked  in  a store  “ way  uptown  in  Oonion  Sqvare.”  He 
still  boasted  a brother  in  the  koscher  district  of  Harlem,  but  for  some 
reason  that  does  not  apply  to  most  of  his  race  he  had  drifted  on  to 
Peru  and  become  a true  Peruvian,  even  to  taking  off  his  hat  when  a 
tin  Virgin  passed  in  the  street.  Yet  we  spoke  German  together.  He 
seemed  to  prefer  it  to  Spanish,  even  after  half  a lifetime  in  the  Andes 
and  despite  a Peruvian  wife  and  half  a dozen  children  entirely  ig- 
norant of  the  former  tongue. 

The  Richter  meals  were  more  than  substantial,  and  his  family 
bubbled  over  with  kind-heartedness.  But  he  was  forced  to  share  the 
honor  of  a guest  from  far-off  America  del  Norte  with  one  Da  Pozzo, 
who  dwelt  in  solitary,  topsyturvy  state  in  an  ancient,  two-story  ruin 
on  a knoll  across  the  prattling  Chumbau.  He  was  a Venetian  on  the 
sadder  side  of  forty,  once  an  architect  of  high  standing,  who  had  laid 
out  more  than  one  Plaza  de  Armas  in  Peru  and  Bolivia.  Several 
turns  of  the  wheel  of  fate  in  the  wrong  direction,  among  them  a Peru- 
vian wife,  the  confessional,  and  the  fiery  waters  that  partly  drown 
such  memories,  had  reduced  his  ambition  to  a low  level  and  his 
income  to  what  may  be  picked  up  by  the  building  of  mud  houses  in 
these  drowsy  towns  of  the  interior.  In  his  customary  condition  he 

401 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


was  maudlinly  affectionate,  to  the  point  of  making  even  my  cheeks 
the  target  of  his  bewhiskered  kisses,  and  vociferous  in  his  assertion 
that  he  was  a “ mason  ” and  a hater  of  priests  in  all  lands  and  lan- 
guages. But  what  mattered  all  this,  or  the  fact  that  his  junk-strewn 
ruin  boasted  only  one  wooden-floored  bed,  and  that  the  rotting  old  bal- 
cony seemed  always  on  the  point  of  dropping  from  under  one?  For 
it  overlooked  splendid  groves  and  rows  of  the  slender,  blue-black  euca- 
lyptus where  birds  sang  merrily,  as  well  as  the  brown  flanks  of  the 
Andes  rolling  up  out  of  both  sides  and  ends  of  a valley  enlivened  by  a 
constant  going  and  coming  of  Indians  along  its  broad  roadway.  Then, 
too,  there  was  rich  alfalfa  on  which  Chusquito  might  gorge  himself 
at  no  other  expense  than  an  occasional  medio  to  the  Indian  boy  as- 
signed the  task  of  cutting  it  — “ that  he  have  affection  for  you  and 
your  horse.” 

Andahuaylas  is  really  nothing  but  an  example  of  how  life  may  be 
made  a perennial  pastime,  scattered  almost  thickly  along  the  entire  two 
leagues  from  Talavera  to  San  Jeronimo.  Yet  its  situation  and  climate 
give  it  a charm  peculiarly  its  own,  and  it  would  be  hard  to  imagine  a 
better  place  in  which  to  drift  through  life  — as  its  inhabitants  seem  to 
recognize.  Though  the  long  valley  is  extremely  fertile,  it  produces 
little.  The  Indians  of  more  or  less  full  blood  that  make  up  the  bulk 
of  the  population  will  not  work ; the  “ white  ” man  cannot,  lest  he  for- 
ever lose  his  precious  caste.  The  laziest  American  laborer  known  to 
charity  bureaus  will  do  more  and  better  work  in  an  hour,  unwatched, 
than  the  liveliest  Indian  of  Andahuaylas  in  a day,  with  a boss  stand- 
ing over  him.  Without  in  the  least  hurrying  I could  descend  from 
the  upper  story  of  our  ruin  to  the  river,  return  with  a pail  of  water, 
complete  my  toilet  and  throw  out  the  water,  before  the  Indian  boy 
whose  only  duty  in  life  was  to  attend  me  would,  if  called,  appear  from 
his  seat  directly  below  my  balcony  to  get  the  pail  — which  he  would 
smash  before  he  got  back,  if  there  was  any  possible  way  of  doing  so, 
and  into  which  he  would  certainly  manage  to  get  some  sort  of  filth,  if 
he  had  to  pick  it  up  and  throw  it  in.  The  gcnte  lay  the  blame  of  this 
condition  on  the  escuelas  fiscales,  the  free  government-schools,  com- 
plaining that  “ there  is  no  longer  service,  for  as  soon  as  the  cholo  has 
been  to  school,  he  wants  to  be  a person.”  “ Faltan  brazos  — arms  are 
lacking,”  they  wail,  gazing  across  the  all  but  uncultivated  valley ; yet 
not  one  of  them  notices  the  two  hanging  idly  at  his  own  sides.  A 
shower  of  medios  failed  to  win  from  the  Indian  boy  an  affection  suffi- 
cient to  keep  Chusquito  from  starvation.  I obtained  permission  to  tie 

402 


THE  ROUTE  OF  THE  CONQUISTADORES 


the  animal  in  a corner  of  the  fat  alfalfa  field  that  would  not  come  to 
him,  and  all  day  long  I could  see  him  across  the  little  river,  a contented 
dot  of  red  against  the  deep  green  background  of  the  field  from  which 
he  never  raised  his  head  the  whole  day  through. 

Yet  the  products  of  the  valley  are  cheap  enough,  when  they  exist. 
Eggs  were  five  cents  a dozen ; one  morning  an  Indian  who  needed  the 
money  came  to  the  ruin  to  offer  me  eight  for  a medio  (2  cents). 
Four  liters  of  milk  might  be  had  for  7 cents.  But  let  the  harassed 
American  householder  pause  a moment  and  reflect,  before  he  sells  his 
chattels  and  hurries  down  to  Andahuaylas.  To  obtain  those  four  liters 
one  must  take  a pail  and  wander  several  miles  along  the  valley  at  about 
nine  in  the  morning,  wait  around  some  hacienda  corral  where  the 
Indians  have  concluded  not  to  abandon  the  daily  milking,  and  never 
get  home  before  noon.  The  “ best  families  ” have  a special  milk-serv- 
ant who  does  nothing  else  — and  frequently  not  even  that  — than  go 
milk  hunting ; and  on  an  average  he  is  robbed  on  his  way  home  of  the 
contents  of  his  pail  about  every  third  morning,  by  some  group  of 
Indians  who  come  upon  him  out  of  sight  of  any  member  of  the  gente 
class. 

There  is  a type  of  “ white  ” Indian  in  the  Andahuaylas  valley,  ap- 
parently without  admixture  of  European  blood,  yet  with  a very  light 
skin  and  delicate  pink  cheeks.  In  the  color  of  their  garments  they 
nearly  rival  those  of  Quito.  The  heavy  woolen  socks  and  hairy  san- 
dals of  more  lofty  regions  are  unknown,  and  the  barefoot  patter  again 
reigns  supreme.  In  manner  the  aboriginal  is  cringing  and  timorous, 
yet  if  the  word  of  the  shod  minority  was  trustworthy,  he  has  more  than 
once  been  known  to  sneak  up  on  a sleeping  gringo  and  mash  his  head 
with  a rock.  Nor  will  he  “ squeal  ” on  one  of  his  own  race,  even 
when  put  to  the  torture. 

In  the  wilderness  of  weeds  that  passed  for  the  local  cemetery  I came 
upon  three  Indians  digging  a child’s  grave.  One  muscular  loafer  stood 
less  than  waist-deep  in  the  hole,  scratching  into  a blanket  spread  out  at 
his  feet  a bit  of  dust,  with  a hoe  Adam  might  have  thrown  away  in 
disgust  during  the  first  week  of  his  existence,  before  he  invented  a 
better  one.  To  corners  of  the  blanket  were  tied  ropes,  by  which  a pair 
of  equally  muscular  Indians  standing  on  the  ground  above  hauled  up 
every  ten  minutes  or  so  nearly  a shovelful  of  earth.  Of  course,  at 
“ coca  time,”  or  a dog-fight,  or  the  passing  of  a drunken  man,  a for- 
eigner, a bird,  or  a milk-pail,  they  paused  from  their  strenuous  labors 
a half-hour  or  so  to  stare  after  the  attraction.  At  least  half  the  time 

403 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


left  they  spent  in  bandying  a skull  and  a pair  of  thigh  bones  back  and 
forth  between  themselves  and  a pair  of  Indian  women  lounging  in  the 
grass  nearby. 

In  the  church  forming  one  side  of  the  plaza  the  chief  among  many 
absurdities  testifying  to  the  local  absence  of  a sense  of  humor  were 
the  figures  in  the  main  side-chapel.  These  were  life-size  statues  of 
Christ  and  the  Virgin,  the  former  in  a sort  of  “ precieux  ” gown  and 
a broad-brimmed  red  hat  with  a pink  band,  the  latter  in  a still  broader 
blue  one,  giving  the  pair  a ludicrous  resemblance  to  the  “ shepherds  ” 
into  which  the  nobles  of  the  French  court  of  two  centuries  ago  used  to 
disguise  themselves,  an  impression  increased  by  the  cross  between  a 
golf-stick  and  a back-of-the-scenes  hook  carried  by  the  Cristo.  Yet 
the  simple  Indians  pattered  in  all  through  the  day  to  kneel  and  gaze 
with  a beatified  expression,  in  which  there  was  not  the  shadow  of  a 
smile,  at  these  absurd  figures,  no  doubt  considering  them  the  last  word 
in  beauty. 

When  all  is  said  and  done,  there  is  a subtle,  lazy  charm  about  the 
valley  of  Andahuaylas  that  holds  the  traveler  long  after  he  should 
have  moved  on.  Sometimes,  as  the  placid  days  drifted  smoothly  by, 
one  caught  the  native  point  of  view,  and  regretted  the  intrusion  of 
strenuous  gringo  activity  in  the  midst  of  nature’s  and  man’s  repose ; 
a realization  that  we  of  the  North  do  much  which  is  not  much  even 
when  we  get  it  done.  Here  one  could  lie  in  perfect  contentment  and 
watch  the  road  looping  away  out  of  the  valley  over  a sunlit  hill,  with- 
out feeling  too  strong  for  resistance  the  itch  to  be  off.  Yet  in  the  end 
the  only  sure  means  of  enjoying  an  Andean  range  is  to  know  that 
some  day  one  is  going  to  tramp  away  into  it,  to  follow  the  trail  that 
shoulders  its  way  mysteriously  off  through  those  shaded  valleys  and 
rugged  quebradas,  beckoning  one  toward  another  and  a new  world 
beyond. 


404 


The  fatherless  urchin  who  fell  in  with  me  beyond  My  body-servant  in  Andahuaylas,  and  the  sickle  with 

Andahuaylas;  the  only  native  wearing  shoes  which  he  was  supposed  to  cut  all  the  alfalfa 

I met  on  the  road  in  the  Andes  Chusquito  could  eat 


CHAPTER  XVI 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  SUN 

I GREW  Suddenly  tired  of  Andahuaylas  one  afternoon,  and  sunrise 
next  morning  found  me  driving  Chusquito  over  the  neighboring 
divide.  We  had  turned  aside  from  the  direct  route  to  Abancay, 
following  the  valley  of  the  Chumbau,  for  the  least  we  could  do  for  our 
recent  hosts  was  to  carry  their  greetings  to  an  isolated  compadre. 
His  “ civilized  hacienda  ” sloped  up  from  the  shore  of  a beautiful 
mountain  lake  some  twenty  miles  in  circumference,  deep-blue  as  some 
immense  emerald,  with  half-cultivated  mountain-flanks  rising  all 
about  it,  and  a village  tucked  away  in  one  corner.  But,  as  so  often  in 
the  high  Andes,  its  entire  shore  was  bordered  with  slime  and  reeds 
that  made  access  almost  impossible.  Mine  host  shouldered  his  fowl- 
ing-piece and  easily  provided  a brace  of  ducks  for  the  evening  meal ; 
but  he  refused  vociferously  to  swim,  and  watched  my  preparations 
with  patent  misgiving.  I succeeded  in  finding  an  entrance,  and  took 
a header  into  the  dense-blue,  seemingly  bottomless  immensity  of  icy 
water,  to  the  vast  astonishment  of  all  the  Indian  shepherds,  male  and 
female,  who  live  out  their  lives  among  their  flocks  on  the  edge  of  this 
magnificent  body  of  water  without  ever  washing  a foot  in  it,  to  say 
nothing  of  contriving  a boat.  The  lake  is  said  to  be  famous  for  its 
floating  islands,  that  blow  back  and  forth  across  it  with  cattle  grazing 
serenely  upon  them ; but  it  was  my  luck  to  find  even  this  Andean 
invention  out  of  order  and  no  longer  “ functioning.” 

My  lake-side  host  was  of  rare  adaptability  for  a Latin-American, 
and  of  no  slight  mechanical  ability.  He  not  only  had  a real  flour-mill, 
but  washed  his  wheat  before  grinding  it!  This  removes  him  at  once 
and  forever  from  the  “ Spig  ” class.  His  own  electric  plant  furnished 
the  most  satisfactory  light  I had  read  by  since  leaving  Lima ; a tele- 
phone connected  him  with  the  outside  world  — though  this  ultra- 
modern contrivance  was  not  yet  considered  a fitting  messenger  for  the 
greetings  of  his  compadres  in  Andahuaylas.  With  the  advertisement 
of  a $200  “ Singola  ” as  a model,  he  had  fitted  his  small  phonograph 
into  a homemade  cedar  box,  making  it  an  instrument  quite  equal  both 

405 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


in  tone  and  appearance  to  that  in  the  catalogue.  Only  he  who  knows 
how  devoid  of  mechanical  ability  is  the  average  Latin-American  can 
realize  how  vastly  this  feat  lifted  the  lake-side  hacendado  above  his 
fellows. 

I had  half-skirted  the  lake  and  crossed  a stony  range  next  day  when, 
near  noon,  in  a collection  of  huts  called  Pincos,  at  the  bottom  of  a 
mighty  quebrada,  I caught  sight  of  something  I had  never  before  seen 
in  South  America.  It  was  a white  boy,  perhaps  twelve  years  old, 
wearing  shoes,  yet  in  spite  of  that  carrying  a bundle  over  one  shoulder, 
like  one  bound  on  a journey. 

“Going  somewhere?”  I asked. 

“ A1  Cuzco,”  was  the  astonishing  reply.  A Peruvian  boy  actually 
leaving  home  to  go  somewhere  else,  just  like  a live  American! 

“ Then  we ’d  better  go  together,”  I answered,  as  soon  as  I had  re- 
covered my  breath. 

The  child  rose  without  a word  and  turned  his  face  with  me  toward 
the  trail  looping  upward  across  the  chasm. 

“ What ’s  your  name  ? ” I began  lamely,  as  we  strained  along  at  the 
heels  of  Chusquito,  who  had  seemed  little  less  surprised  than  I at  this 
extraordinary  apparition. 

“ Teofilo  Fulano,”  replied  our  new  companion. 

“ Fulano ! Relative,  perhaps,  of  the  Sehor  Fulano  at  whose  hacienda 
I spent  last  night?” 

“Yes;  Don  Faustino  is  my  father.” 

“ Impossible ! ” I cried.  “ He  is  only  recently  married  and  has  no 
children.” 

“ Not  since  he  is  married,”  replied  the  child,  innocently,  “ and  he 
won’t  recognize  me.” 

“ And  your  mother?  ” I continued  after  a time. 

“ She  keeps  a chicha-shop  in  Andahuaylas,”  answered  the  boy. 
“ She  used  to  love  Don  Faustino.” 

For  hours  we  rose  steadily,  the  valley  of  Pincos  and  the  little  river, 
frothing  over  the  stones  at  its  bottom,  sinking  lower  and  lower  beneath 
us,  a damp  mountain-top  coolness  tempering  our  toil  and  somewhat 
offsetting  the  absence  of  drinkingwater.  Our  shadows  crawled  from 
under  our  feet  and  grew  to  erectness  before  us,  and  still  the  rather 
well-kept  roadway  looped  upward. 

“Why  do  you  go  to  Cuzco?”  I asked,  breaking  in  upon  the  story 
of  some  boyish  prank ; for,  once  I had  won  his  confidence,  the  child 
was  garrulous,  after  the  manner  of  his  race. 

406 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  SUN 


“ One  of  my  relatives  lives  there,"  he  muttered.  The  answer  was 
too  exactly  in  the  tone  of  the  same  reply  in  another  tongue  I had  so 
often  heard  from  the  lips  of  “ hoboing  ” youngsters  in  my  own  land 
to  be  taken  for  more  than  a subterfuge.  I hold  it  any  man’s  privilege 
to  keep  his  own  counsel,  however,  even  though  he  has  not  yet  reached 
the  four-foot  mark,  and  he  was  soon  prattling  on  again  as  unbrokenly 
as  if  the  steep  slopes  of  his  native  mountains  were  level  plain. 

A crude  cross,  surrounded  by  an  irregular  heap  of  stones  tossed 
there  one  by  one  by  passing  Indians,  marked  the  wind-blown  summit. 
On  the  bit  of  pampa  that  preceded  another  stony  descent  stood  the 
ruin  of  what  may  have  been  an  Inca  fortress  or  look-out,  with  another 
crazy  cross  atop.  From  it  spread  a vast  view,  with  the  morrow’s  road 
plainly  in  sight,  squirming  out  of  a half-concealed  valley  and  panting 
away  over  another  of  the  countless  Andean  ridges  that  divide  this 
region  as  with  a series  of  mighty  walls.  But  it  was  long  afterward 
that  we  came  in  sight  of  Huancarama,  wedged  in  the  throat  of  the 
gorge  and  extremely  inviting,  at  a distance,  to  three  famished  and 
choking  roadsters. 

Our  reception  there  was  so  typical  that  I am  minded  to  describe  it, 
for  all  its  similarity  to  other  experiences.  We  had  explored  the 
place  rather  thoroughly  before  we  located  the  dwelling  of  Ezequiel 
Palomino,  the  gobernador.  It  is  a common  ruse  of  the  rural  “ author- 
ities ” of  Peru  not  only  to  hide  from  an  arriving  stranger,  but  to  swear 
the  rest  of  the  town  to  secrecy.  Small  wonder,  since  they  hold  their 
positions  on  compulsion  and  without  emoluments.  Moreover,  their 
inability  to  vizualize  that  which  is  absent  gives  these  isolated  rural 
officials  a contempt  for  the  government  and  its  orders,  unless  it  is 
actually  there  in  person,  and  well  armed.  The  doors  of  Don  Eze- 
quiel’s  shop,  facing  the  grazing-ground  plaza,  were  closed,  and  his 
Indian  women  in  the  patio  as  stupid  in  their  indifference,  and  as  clumsy 
as  usual  at  covering  up  their  lies.  The  set  answer  to  any  inquiry  for 
the  head  of  such  a household  is  a mumbled,  “No  ’sta  ’ca,”  or  its 
Quichua  equivalent.  Yet  if  one  answer,  “ I did  not  ask  where  he  was 
not,  you  wooden-headed  daughter  of  a father  without  understanding; 
I asked,  where  is  he?”  one  is  considered  rude  and  unsimpatico.  A 
long  struggle  brought  only  the  information  that  the  gobernador  was  in 
some  indefinite  place  somewhere  far-away  or  near  at  hand,  and  that  he 
might  or  might  not  return  in  the  natural  course  of  events. 

But  this  time  there  was  a loophole  in  the  defenses  of  the  besieged. 
A shop-keeper  — keeping  it,  as  well  as  all  its  accumulated  stock, 

407 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


seemed  to  be  the  extent  of  his  activities  — across  the  plaza  turned  out 
to  be  the  alcalde,  who  evidently  was  privately  disgruntled  with  his  fel- 
low-official. For  when  my  questions  grew  pressing,  he  swore  me  to 
secrecy  and  whispered : 

“ The  gobernador  is  at  home  asleep  in  his  own  house,  because  he  is 
seasick  to-day  and  he  winked  ever  so  faintly  at  the  generous  display 
of  bottles  on  the  shelves  beside  us. 

Far  be  it  from  me  to  blame  any  man  for  whiling  away  an  Andean 
existence  in  the  only  available  fashion.  But  poor,  uncomplaining 
Chusquito  had  already  stood  a long  hour  unfed  and  unwatered,  his 
burden  still  upon  him  and  twenty-five  steep  and  stony  miles  in  his 
slender  legs.  I lost  no  time  in  returning  to  the  patio.  The  Indian 
women,  seeing  no  way  out  of  it,  admitted  that  their  lord  and  master 
was  “ sick  in  bed,  but  ya  no  mas  ha  de  venir  ” — which  may  mean,  “ he 
is  coming  at  once,”  or  that  he  may  come  the  day  after  to-morrow.  I 
strode  up  the  outside  stairs  to  the  second-story  veranda  and,  throwing 
open  the  several  doors,  discovered  at  last  the  elusive  official,  a bleary- 
eyed  half-breed  of  the  most  disgusting  type.  I slapped  him  in  the 
face,  figuratively  at  least,  with  my  government  order,  and  with  a savage 
leer  and  an  unhuman  growl  he  ordered  a servant  to  open  for  us  a 
mud  den  facing  the  street.  As  to  alfalfa,  that,  he  mumbled,  was 
“ far  away.”  I thrust  a coin  upon  him,  piled  our  junk  in  the  bare 
dungeon  with  the  little  fatherless  one  to  watch  over  it,  and  set  out  to 
forage  food  for  ourselves.  When  I returned,  the  gobernador  had  car- 
ried out  the  legal  requirements  of  his  office  by  causing  an  Indian  to 
toss  before  Chusquito  a small  handful  of  last  year’s  corn-stalks.  This 
time  he  had  hidden  himself  effectually.  I began  a systematic  search 
of  the  premises.  In  a back-yard,  behind  the  patio  wall,  I found  a 
half-dozen  of  the  gobemador’s  fat  horses  stuffing  themselves  to  burst- 
ing from  an  enormous  heap  of  fresh,  green  alfalfa ! The  Indian  whom 
I caught  by  the  slack  of  the  garment  and  drove  before  me  under  all  the 
load  he  could  carry,  pocketed  a real  with  a promise  to  watch  over  the 
fodder,  and  to  repeat  the  dose  at  dawn.  But  I also  hovered  for  some 
time  in  the  shadow  near  at  hand,  in  the  hope  of  catching  some  one  at- 
tempting to  snatch  away  Chusquito’s  hard-won  meal,  that  I might 
fittingly  express  my  feelings  with  the  toe  of  a boot.  No  victim  offered 
himself,  however,  and  the  little  love-token  and  I rolled  up  together  in 
my  ponchos  on  the  dirt  floor,  to  spend  a night  during  which  the  rain 
poured  as  it  seldom  does  in  the  upper  Andes. 

We  were  off  at  daylight,  as  travelers  should  be,  along  a fertile,  V- 

408 


View  of  Cuzco,  the  ancient  Inca  capital,  from  the  summit  of  Sacsahuaman 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  SUN 


shaped  valley.  The  rain  had  given  the  morning  a scent  of  fresh  lush- 
ness rare  in  the  dry  Andes ; birds  sang  gaily  in  the  willows  along  the 
stream ; and  great  masses  of  snow-white  clouds  lay  banked  in  the  hol- 
lows of  the  mountains.  Then  came  another  mighty  climb  to  a stag- 
nant, mountain-top  lagoon,  and  the  usual  hundred  yards  or  so  of  level 
going  before  we  pitched  down  another  of  the  stony  bajadas  that  seem 
to  shake  all  the  bolts  of  the  anatomy  loose,  like  a runaway  railway  train 
bumping  over  the  ties.  Suddenly  there  disclosed  itself  to  view  one  of 
those  Andean  vistas  so  tantalizing  to  the  photographer,  since  any 
attempt  to  reproduce  them  on  a film  results  only  in  a waste  of  effort 
and  material.  The  earth  had  been  scolloped  out  into  an  enormous 
valley,  with'  a very  green,  ^hread-like  river  racing  Amazonward  far 
down  in  its  rocky  gorge ; hundreds  of  little  stone-fenced  patches  newly 
plowed  to  await  the  rain,  were  scattered  far  and  near  on  all  the  fertile, 
enclosing  mountainsides  that  rose  higher  and  higher  as  we  descended. 
Each  Indian  chacra  showed  two  tiny  white  houses  connected  by  a high 
wall,  which,  no  doubt,  enclosed  the  corral,  enticing  — at  least  at  a 
distance  — in  their  specklessness.  Then,  far,  far  off  across  a vast  ex- 
panse of  gashed  and  tumbled  valley,  at  the  back  of  a great  tilted 
field  broken  into  squares  of  the  yellow-green  of  sugar-cane,  alternating 
with  the  deeper  line  of  alfalfares,  with  a ribbon  of  road  winding  to, 
and  swallowed  up  within  it,  could  be  plainly  made  out  the  little  city  of 
Abancay,  backed  by  mountains  capped  with  snow-white  clouds. 

The  brilliant  sun  had  reduced  things  again  to  the  old,  familiar  dry- 
as-dust  condition,  making  a torture  the  long  perpetual  zigzag  down  to 
the  river  Pachachaca,  flowjng  north  through  a deep  cleft  in  the  moun- 
tains to  the  hot  Amazonian  montana  and  the  Atlantic,  the  gleam  of  its 
blue  waters  tantalizing  to  our  choking,  desert  thirst.  I reached  at 
last  the  stone  and  cement  bridge  of  graceful  arch  straddling  the  gorge, 
only  to  find,  to  my  dismay,  that  this  passed  high  out  of  reach  of 
the  water.  But  we  would  not  be  choked  thus  in  plain  sight  of  the 
inviting  stream.  I turned  Chusquito  up  along  the  bank  and  tramped 
a long  distance  through  cactus  and  chaparral,  dust  and  tropical  heat, 
without  finding  a break  in  the  jungle-clad,  precipitous  bank.  At  last, 
unable  to  endure  the  tantalizing  sight  longer,  I took  chance  by  the 
forelock  and  dragged  the  animal  down  through  the  clutching  trees 
and  undergrowth  as  far  as  he  could  possibly  go,  then  unloaded  him, 
standing  on  a huge  rock  as  on  a pedestal,  and  carried  my  junk  the 
rest  of  the  way  to  a shady  spot  beside  the  racing  stream.  There  I 
cooked,  ate,  read,  wrote,  bathed,  washed  all  my  available  clothing,  and 

409 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


napped,  and  it  was  mid-afternoon  before  I had  loaded  again.  The  little 
son  of  the  chicha-shop  had  fallen  behind  in  the  long  descent.  As  I ate, 
he  crossed  the  bridge  above,  but  though  I fired  my  revolver  several 
times  to  attract  his  attention,  he  went  on  unheeding.  All  the  four 
hours  had  been  burdened  with  the  worry  of  perhaps  finding  it  impos- 
sible to  get  Chusquito  back  again  up  that  jungled  precipice  and  rock- 
spill  ; but  the  little  beast  climbed  it  like  a chamois  in  his  native  moun- 
tains, though  a real  horse  would  have  refused  to  attempt  it. 

Abancay  is  one  of  the  most  insignificant  of  department  capitals,  the 
lowest  and  most  nearly  tropical  city  of  all  this  trans-Peruvian  trip. 
Plot  as  it  is,  there  are  snowclads  close  behind  and  seeming  hardly  a 
rifle-shot  away  from  the  town,  and  back  along  the  valley  through 
which  we  had  come  the  double  Indian  houses  stood  out  as  clear  white 
specks  far  up  the  perpendicular  mountain  walls,  fifteen  and  even 
twenty  miles  away.  The  place  has  probably  fewer  than  2000  in- 
habitants, of  whom  easily  ninety  percent,  are  more  or  less  Indian,  the 
few  whites  being  chiefly  importations  in  the  form  of  government  offi- 
cials. The  town  is  not  old,  and  is  somewhat  built  to  order.  Yet  it 
has  not  only  electric  lights,  but  a good  water-supply  — when  this  is  not 
polluted  on  its  journey  as  an  open  brook  through  the  town.  There  is  a 
simple  monument,  designed  by  my  former  host,  Da  Pozzo,  to  a local 
hero  who  rose  to  the  lofty  heights  of  a department  prefectship ; one  of 
the  few  artistic  things  in  Peru,  because  of  its  absence  of  over-orna- 
mentation. Bread  was  again  worth  nearly  its  weight  in  gold,  the  town 
being  well  below  the  wheat-line.  A disease  known  as  “ obero  ” is 
common  among  the  Indians,  turning  the  face  a sooty  black.  There 
is  also  a white  “ obero,”  which  gives  its  victims  the  appearance  of 
those  negroes  who  seek  to  attain  white  skins  by  acid  treatment.  Some 
of  the  chola  women  are  decidedly  pretty,  in  spite  of  their  habits ; but, 
as  so  often  with  their  sex  the  world  over,  once  they  begin  to  suspect 
that  fact  they  are  prone  to  attempt  to  improve  on  nature,  with  dis- 
tressing results.  Every  woman  wears  the  dicclla,  a square  of  cloth 
richly  embroidered  and  worked  with  flowers,  about  her  shoulders.  In 
it  a baby  is  carried  when  the  wearer  attains  one,  apparently  not  a diffi- 
cult feat  in  Abancay.  But  none  go  without  this  article  of  attire,  and 
he  who  does  not  look  closely  will  scarcely  notice  whether  the  dicclla 
is  full  of  baby,  or  is  empty. 

In  my  first  stroll  about  town  I came  upon  the  boy  of  Andahuaylas 
in  one  of  the  huts  on  the  outskirts,  where  he  was  evidently  avoiding 
me  because  he  had  eaten  — raw  — the  five  eggs  I had  given  him  to 

410 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  SUN 


carry.  He  had  fallen  in  with  friends,  and  demonstrated  his  Latin- 
American  temperament  by  giving  up  his  plan  to  walk  to  Cuzco. 

The  “ Hotel  Progreso  ” of  Yacarias  Trujillo  is,  like  Abancay,  more 
easily  imagined  than  described.  A stone-paved  rectangle  full  of 
clothes-lines,  flapping  with  garments  of  both  sexes,  of  Indian  and  chola 
women  and  children  of  all  degrees  of  ignorance  of  soap,  of  parrots,  tur- 
keys, a belligerent  goose,  chickens  without  number,  countless  yellow 
curs,  a dozen  fat  and  self-assertive  pigs,  and  an  occasional  drunken 
man,  formed  its  center.  A wall  half-separated  it  from  the  barn- 
yard general-convenience  and  kitchen,  beneath  which  flowed  an  open 
sewer  and  water-supply.  My  “ room  ” was  an  ancient,  lopsided,  scar- 
faced, airless  den  opening  directly  off  this,  with  the  dust  of  ages  on  its 
battered  and  medieval  furniture.  The  longer  of  the  two  maltreated 
wooden  platforms  on  legs  that  posed  as  bedsteads  was  at  least  a foot 
shorter  than  I,  though  I make  no  great  requirements  in  that  respect, 
and  I had  either  to  hang  my  legs  over  the  razor-edge  of  the  footboard, 
or  thrust  one  out  at  each  corner.  In  these  Andean  hostelries  the  land- 
lord may  hover  around  the  guest  on  the  day  of  his  arrival,  chiefly  out 
of  curiosity,  commanding  the  servants  who  furnish  the  room  to  order. 
But  he  never  does  so  on  the  succeeding  days,  as  his  attention  is  fully 
taken  up  with  the  little  grocery,  drunkery,  and  billiard-room  on  which 
his  real  income  depends,  and  one  is  lucky  indeed  to  lay  hands  once  a 
day  on  a servant  to  bring  a pitcher  of  water  and  empty  the  basura.  As 
to  a clean  towel  or  a change  of  sheets,  the  only  way  to  obtain  them, 
whatever  the  length  of  stay,  is  to  move  to  another  hotel  — in  the  un- 
likely event  that  one  exists.  But  the  accomplished  bachelor  prefers,  on 
the  whole,  to  be  his  own  chambermaid,  rather  than  admit  to  his  room 
the  average  variety  of  Andean  hotel  servant.  The  service  was  genu- 
inely table  d’hote,  in  that  we  gathered  around  the  table  with  the  entire 
family  of  our  host,  his  children,  dogs,  and  chickens,  some  local  govern- 
ment officials,  and  the  ubiquitous  four-eyed  German  with  his  Stale  jokes 
and  flat-footed  attempts  to  make  himself  “ simpatico.”  On  Sunday 
we  had  to  dinner  a dried-up  but  still  bright  old  lady  who  claimed  to 
remember  the  battle  of  Ayacucho,  88  years  before,  and  to  have  seen  as 
a small  girl  the  beaten  Spaniards  racing  pell-mell  through  “ Dead 
Man’s  Corner.” 

Yacarias  had  learned  none  of  those  tricks  of  his  tribe  that  are  the 
burden  of  the  traveler  almost  the  world  over.  Though  his  rates 
were  ninety  cents  a day,  he  refused  to  collect  for  the  meal  or  two  I 
ran  over  and  when  I left  he  forced  upon  me  a roast  chicken  for  my 

411 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


fiambre,  or  road  lunch,  as  “ a little  remembrance.”  Moreover,  to  my 
astonishment  he  actually  had  Chusquito  back  from  his  pasture  and  tied 
in  the  patio  with  a juicy  bundle  of  alfalfa  before  him,  by  the  time  the 
religious  fiesta  had  sunk  into  its  drunken  sleep  and  quiet  had  settled 
down  over  the  Andes.  To  have  a Latin- American  promise  to  do  a 
thing  and  then  to  do  it  the  same  day  was  a breath-taking  experience, 
indeed. 

We  were  off  at  the  crack  of  dawn  on  the  last  stage  of  my  march 
to  the  ancient  capital  of  the  Inca  Empire.  That  eagerness  the  traveler 
always  feels  in  nearing  the  scene  of  boyhood  dreams  caused  me  to  scold 
Chusquito  more  than  usual  for  not  keeping  out  from  underfoot  on  the 
famous  climb  to  the  next  mountain  notch,  with  its  achapeta,  or  stone- 
heap,  on  which  Indians  are  said  to  have  tossed  their  coca-cuds  since 
long  before  the  Conquest.  The  descent  was  even  swifter,  and  by  three 
we  had  ended  the  nine  leagues  to  Curahuasi,  a scattered  collection  of 
huts  on  a high  shelf  of  mountain.  Chusquito  had  brought  with  him  his 
own  dinner  wrapped  in  my  rubber  poncho,  in  the  form  of  a wad  of 
alfalfa  he  had  not  been  able  to  finish  in  Abancay.  But,  though  he  man- 
aged to  make  away  with  it,  he  seemed  to  prefer  the  short,  dry  mountain- 
grass  of  the  central  plaza,  consisting  of  a large,  open  space  adorned  by 
one  lone  eucalyptus.  I was  soon  possessor  of  the  Stone-age  key  and 
pad-lock  of  the  cabildo,  an  empty  mud  cave  furnished  by  the  municipal- 
idad,  to  which  the  traveler  is  as  legally  entitled  as  to  lodging  in  a French 
asile  de  nuit.  The  same  building  included  the  jail,  full  of  the  after- 
math  of  the  religious  fiesta  in  the  persons  of  bleary-eyed  Indians 
thrusting  their  faces  through  the  wooden  bars  of  the  single  window, 
imploring  liquor  and  tobacco.  But  though  I had  wine,  chicha,  and 
pisco,  and  Peruvian  prisoners  are  permitted  anything  they  can  lay 
hands  on,  it  seemed  wiser  to  let  them  reflect  on  the  error  of  their  ways. 
The  ragged  lieutenant-governor  came  to  inquire  if  he  should  send  a 
“ cholita  ” to  keep  me  company,  and  seemed  to  consider  my  negative  re- 
ply a personal  affront.  Now  and  then  an  Indian,  all  but  hidden  under 
a load  of  green  alfalfa,  loped  across  the  plaza,  pursued  by  several  asses 
taking  a bite  at  every  jump.  It  is  the  custom  in  this  region  for  all 
aboriginals,  men,  women,  or  children,  to  snatch  off  their  hats  and  mur- 
mur “ Buenas  tardes  ” — whatever  the  time  of  day  — to  every  white 
man.  If  I failed  to  answer,  they  repeated  that  inane,  redundant,  and 
not  always  truthful  remark  in  a loud,  distressed  voice  until  I re- 
plied, as  if  they  feared  some  punishment  unless  their  greeting  was  re- 
turned. When  it  came  to  every  passerby  thus  insisting  on  recognition 

412 


Building  a house  in  Peru.  Mud  and  chopped  straw  are  trampled  together  with  the 
bare  feet,  loaded  into  a hod  that  is  really  a sun-dried  ox-hide,  and  fashioned 
into  such  a wall  as  that  in  the  background 


The  patio  of  the  “Hotel  Progreso”  of  Abancay.  The  cook  is  peering  through  the  hole  in 
the  wall  by  which  she  thrusts  out  to  the  servants  at  meal-time  her 
nefarious  concoctions 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  SUN 


as  often  as  he  passed  the  cabildo  doorway  in  which  I sat  writing  my 
notes,  it  was  hard  to  refrain  from  replying  with  the  adobe  brick 
nearest  at  hand. 

Birds  were  singing  merrily  in  the  molle  trees  when  we  descended  a 
semi-desert  bristling  with  cactus,  then  through  precipitous  stony  que- 
bradas  at  the  bottoms  of  which  excited  streams  rushed  headlong  down 
from  the  mountain  heights  in  their  haste  to  join  the  unseen  river 
below  on  its  journey  to  the  Atlantic.  We  were  approaching  the  fa- 
mous Apurimac,  the  roar  of  whose  waters  already  came  up  to  us,  and 
the  crossing  of  which  travelers  have  always  looked  forward  to  with 
misgiving.  Yet  it  was  only  a very  moderate  river  we  came  in  sight 
of  in  mid-morning,  exceedingly  far  down  in  the  precipitous  gorge  it 
has  cut  for  itself  during  the  centuries.  The  leg-straining  descent 
seemed  endless ; the  road  wound  incessantly  round  the  mountain,  far 
up  each  profound  ravine  and  back  again,  so  that  a two-mile  walk  was 
barely  a 500-yard  gain.  Travelers  now  were  numerous.  Mule-trains 
with  goods  from  the  outside  world  by  way  of  Cuzco  appeared  as  dots 
on  the  sky-line  crest  of  the  range  beyond,  and  crawled  slowly  down 
its  barren  face;  Indians,  bearing  on  their  backs  chickens,  pigs,  or  the 
scanty  produce  of  their  chacras,  climbed  past  us  into  the  hot,  cactus- 
grown  world  above. 

The  blazing  sun  stood  sheer  overhead  when  we  reached  the  river,  or 
more  exactly  Tablachaca,  the  “ board-bridge  ” high  above  it.  Since 
long  before  the  Conquest,  simpichacas , the  swaying  Inca  bridges  of 
braided  withes,  have  been  thrown  across  this  mighty  gorge  at  various 
points,  so  that  the  passing  of  the  Apurimac  has  long  been  synonymous 
with  taking  one’s  life  in  one’s  hands.  But  the  tameness  of  modern 
times  has  intruded  even  here.  To-day  a solid  bridge,  built  by  a Phila- 
delphian and  maintained,  not  by  the  government,  but  by  the  neigh- 
boring hacendados,  carries  the  traveler  across  without  a tremor.  In 
an  openwork,  gnat-bitten  hut  beside  it  live  the  bridge-tender,  a curi- 
ously old  youth,  and  his  mother,  boasting  themselves  the  grandson 
and  daughter  respectively  of  the  builder,  yet  so  purely  Peruvian  that 
they  cannot  even  pronounce  the  name  of  their  illustrious  ancestor. 

Finding  it  possible  to  descend  to  the  river  by  a series  of  natural 
stone  steps,  I determined  to  enjoy  the  distinction  of  a dip  into  the 
famous  stream.  The  astonished  bridge-tenders  wished  to  know  if  I 
was  a great  swimmer,  as  their  father  and  grandfather  from  Phila- 
delphia had  been,  and  could  I even  out-gringo  him  by  swimming  clear 
across  the  river.  I admitted  that  I could  come  near  to  making  it,  if 

413 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


there  were  a sheriff’s  posse  at  my  heels  and  no  bridge ; but  neither  of 
those  contingencies  staring  me  in  the  face,  I saw  no  reason  to  risk 
coming  home  by  way  of  the  Amazon  in  the  garb  of  Adam  by  attempt- 
ing a gratuitous  “ stunt  ” worthy  of  a genuine  andarin.  As  I stood 
soaping  my  gnat-bitten  frame,  however,  I fell  to  wondering  why  Pedro 
de  la  Gasca  should  have  lost  most  of  his  horses  and  mules  here  on  the 
way  to  his  famous  pussy-wants-a-corner  game  with  Gonzalo  Pizarro  on 
the  field  of  Xaquixaguana.  For  though  it  snarled  and  fretted  against 
its  rocky  barriers  with  considerable  force  and  speed,  to  any  but  a 
Spanish-speaking  people  the  stream  lapping  at  my  knees  would  not 
exactly  seem  a great  river.  I came  to  the  conclusion  that  his  misfor- 
tune must  have  been  due  to  the  fact  that  Pedro  was  a priest,  and  to 
test  the  theory,  swam  across,  sat  a moment  against  the  sheer  rock 
wall  that  bounds  the  resounding  gorge  on  the  further  side,  and  swam 
back  again.  True  the  stream  moved  with  something  more  than  Peru- 
vian energy,  and  not  far  below  there  was  a fall  with  a threatening 
hollow  roar  where  the  man  so  foolish  as  to  let  himself  be  carried  over 
might  have  sustained  a few  bumps  and  gashes.  But  there  was  nothing 
in  the  escapade  to  get  excited  over,  much  less  to  lose  one’s  horses. 

Imagine  my  surprise,  therefore,  as  I gripped  my  prehensile  toes 
once  more  on  the  hither  bank,  to  discover,  just  in  time  to  save  myself 
from  shattering  the  proprieties  to  fragments,  that  all  the  surrounding 
countryside,  large  and  small,  male  and  female,  Indian,  half-breed  and 
24-breed,  was  hanging  over  the  precipice  and  bridge  above,  watch- 
ing with  open  mouths  my  marvelous  and  unprecedented  feat.  As 
I climbed  the  bank,  reclad,  the  vigilante  del  puente  and  his  mother 
fell  upon  me,  insisting  that  such  unrivalled  prowess  should  not  pass 
unrecorded,  and  getting  possession  of  my  note-book,  they  spent  most 
of  the  afternoon  in  concocting  a certificate  of  my  epoch-making  adven- 
ture, with  all  the  signatures,  rubricas,  and  seals  thereunto  appertaining. 

Beyond  the  river,  now  in  the  great  department  of  Cuzco,  we  climbed 
a sheer  mountain  face,  and  descended  with  sunset  to  a mass  of  build- 
ings on  a bluff,  among  immense  stretches  of  yellow-green  canefields. 
This  was  the  hacienda  “ La ‘Estrella  ” of  Senator  Montes,  whom  offi- 
cial duties  held  in  Lima,  but  whose  son,  once  he  had  overcome  his 
racial  prejudice  against  a man  who  came  on  foot  and  without  a serv- 
ant, appointed  an  Indian  valet  to  Chuscjuito  and  took  upon  himself 
my  entertainment.  His  newly  constructed  mansion  boasted  all  mod- 
ern improvements,  from  electric  lights  to  paintings  on  the  walls  of 
corredor  and  rooms  “ by  a famous  imported  artist.”  In  the  well- 

414 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  SUN 


appointed  sugar-mill  the  cane  of  the  surrounding  fields  was  turned 
into  white,  cone-shaped  sugar-loaves  and  concentrated  merriment,  the 
latter  selling  at  $9  a hundred  liters,  of  which  something  more  than 
half  went  to  the  government.  Two  salt-inspectors  joined  us  at  the  for- 
mal dinner  in  the  overdecorated  mansion.  Salt  being  a government 
monopoly,  Peru  swarms  with  salt-inspectors,  salt-police,  salt-detec- 
tives, official  salt-weighers,  and  so  on  to  national  bankruptcy.  The 
reddish  rocks  mined  on  the  Montes  estate  were  bought  by  the  govern- 
ment at  ten  cents  a hundred-weight  — and  sold  in  official  estancos  at 
$2.50! 

As  we  sat, — Montes  the  younger,  his  half-dozen  white  overseers, 
and  the  salt-inspectors  — before  the  door  of  the  cabin  that  had  been 
assigned  me,  the  tropical  full  moon  casting  over  the  scene  a brightness 
almost  equal  to  that  of  a sunny  day,  a hundred  picturesquely  clad 
Indian  peons,  carrying  medieval  hoes  and  axes,  lined  up  before  us  for 
roll-call,  then  scattered  to  their  huts.  The  hacienda’s  vast  army  of 
laborers  refuse  for  the  most  part  to  live  in  the  tenement-like  houses,  in 
long,  identical  rows,  of  which  my  own  lodging  was  one,  but  insisted, 
with  the  conservatism  so  deeply  engrained  in  their  race,  on  building 
their  own  huts,  of  far  poorer  accommodations.  Each  peon  was  given 
a piece  of  land  on  which  to  erect  his  dwelling  and  plant  his  garden, 
free  pasturage  for  a few  animals,  and  a wage  of  20  cents  a day,  when 
he  worked  for  the  hacienda.  This  he  did  only  every  other  month,  and 
thanks  to  church  festivals  and  the  concentrated  canejuice  with  which 
they  are  enlivened,  by  no  means  all  the  days  of  that.  The  women 
had  no  obligations  to  the  hacienda,  but  lived  on  it  merely  as  appen- 
dices to  their  husbands  — old  maids,  of  course,  are  unknown  among 
South  American  Indians  — doing  only  such  work  about  the  estate- 
house  as  they  could  be  coaxed  to  do,  or  “ what  they  were  ordered  by 
their  husbands.”  Under  the  silver-flooding  moon  the  gathering  of 
gente  grew  reminiscent,  and  on  every  hand  floated  stories  of  Peru, 
ending  with  one  by  the  son  which  explained  why  Montes  the  elder  had 
become  wealthy  and  a Senator  and  had  had  such  extraordinary  all- 
around  luck  — because  he  had  picked  up  at  the  Chicago  Exposition 
twenty  years  before  a horseshoe,  which  was  still  carefully  guarded. 

The  moon  had  set,  though  the  forerunner  of  day  had  not  yet  ap- 
peared, when,  after  trying  in  vain  to  punch  awake  the  peon  Montes 
had  ordered  to  attend  me,  I entered  the  immense  hacienda  corral  to 
['cscar,  or  “ fish  out,”  as  the  Peruvians  say,  my  horselet  from  the  army 
of  mules  and  horses  munching  the  dry  pulp  of  crushed  sugarcane  that 

H5 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


constitutes  the  fodder  of  these  near-tropical  regions.  I had  no  diffi- 
culty in  recognizing  my  own  animal  in  the  dark,  not  only  by  his  dimin- 
utiveness, but  by  his  picturesquely  docked  tail.  Looking  back  on  that 
day,  however,  I am  sorry  I did  not  pescar  another  animal  by  mis- 
take. 

As  I prepared  to  load  him  before  my  cabin  door,  I was  startled  to 
find  that  Chusquito.  seemed  to  have  turned  zebra  during  the  night. 
Several  dark  lines  ran  from  his  spine  down  either  side  to  his  shaggy 
belly.  The  sense  of  smell  astonished  me  with  the  information  that 
these  were  of  blood.  I got  water  and  washed  him  off,  meanwhile 
cursing  the  savage  mules  that  had  evidently  spent  most  of  the  night 
biting  the  helpless  little  brute.  As  a former  Zone  Policeman,  trained 
to  arrest  every  Panamanian  coachman  who  dared  enter  the  Canal 
Zone  with  a horse  matado,  I had  taken  extreme  care  to  keep  my  own 
animal  free  from  those  back-sores  so  atrociously  frequent  and  un- 
attended in  the  Andes.  But  the  soft  alforjas  could  not  add  to  his 
injuries.  I,  too,  had  been  bitten,  until  my  frame  was  one  single  ex- 
panse of  tattooing;  and  Chusquito  must  bear  his  share  of  troubles 
unavoidable  in  the  tropics.  I arranged  the  load  as  carefully  as  pos- 
sible, and  we  were  off. 

It  was  not  long,  however,  before  I realized  that  something,  perhaps 
the  impossibility  of  eating  during  the  night,  had  decidedly  sapped  my 
companion’s  strength.  He  did  not  tramp  with  his  old-time  vim ; the 
joy  of  life  seemed  to  have  departed  from  him.  I moderated  my  pace, 
thinking  my  haste  to  reach  the  climax  of  my  South  American  journey 
was  unconsciously  causing  me  to  outdo  the  pace  we  had  long  since 
agreed  upon.  Still  he  would  not  keep  out  from  under  my  feet.  For 
almost  the  first  time  in  our  acquaintance  I found  it  necessary  to  touch 
him  up  with  a stick.  We  were  moving  along  a semi-tropical  hollow, 
amid  the  deafening  scream  of  parrakeets,  with  an  occasional  sharp  dip 
into  and  climb  out  of  a stony  quebrada,  from  which  I had  almost  to 
carry  him  by  main  force.  He  moved  like  a clock  that  was  running 
down,  and  for  the  life  of  me  I could  not  contrive  the  means  of  winding 
him  up  again.  Then,  all  at  once,  I realized  what  had  befallen  him. 
The  poor,  misused  brute  had  been  bitten,  not  by  mules,  but  by  those 
loathsome  vampire  bats  of  tropical  valleys  that  sometimes  find  even 
human  victims  for  their  blood-sucking  propensities. 

We  crawled  at  last  into  the  mud  village  of  Limatambo,  only  to  be 
informed  that  there  was  no  alfalfa  in  town,  and  that  we  must  push  on 
at  least  to  the  “ Hacienda  Challabamba,”  half  a league  up  the  valley. 

416 


A religious  procession  in  Abancay.  Note  the  group  of  urchins  in  the  church- 
tower  vying  with  each  other  in  beating  the  bells  into  an  uproar 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  SUN 


As  we  turned  toward  it,  I was  startled  to  find  the  way  bordered  by 
a splendid  wall  of  cut  stone,  about  which  the  effete  modern  inhabitants 
had  pitched  their  miserable  mud  huts.  For  here,  commanding  the 
narrow  entrance  to  the  valley,  stood  one  of  those  four  fortresses 
with  which  the  ancient  emperors  of  Tavantinsuyo  had  defended,  at 
some  twelve  leagues  from  the  capital,  the  highways  radiating  to  the 
Four  Corners  of  the  Earth.  Chusquito  had  lost  all  response  to  any 
species  of  outside  influence.  Push  as  I would,  putting  my  shoulder 
to  the  wheel  — I would  say  rump  — and  digging  my  toes  into  the  trail, 
we  could  not  advance  a mile  an  hour.  The  drooping  animal  took  a 
half  minute  to  lift  each  separate  foot,  a pebble  caused  him  to 
stumble,  a six-inch  rock  step  made  him  groan  audibly.  He  did  not 
look  particularly  worn-out ; he  was  fatter  if  anything  than  the  day  I had 
bought  him ; and  surely  even  a man  could  have  gone  the  mile  or  two 
more  “ on  his  nerve.”  Instead,  he  came  to  a complete  standstill. 
This  would  never  do.  At  least  we  must  reach  the  hacienda  and  its 
alfalfa-fields.  Much  as  it  grieved  me  to  raise  a hand  against  a faith- 
ful companion,  I rapped  him  soundly  across  the  quarters  with  my 
stick.  He  uttered  a sudden  pathetic  groan,  and  dropped  in  the  middle 
of  the  road  as  suddenly  as  a well-killed  bull  in  a Spanish  bull-ring;  his 
legs  quivered  a moment,  his  eyes  opened  wide,  closed,  then  opened 
again  in  a glassy  stare. 

Despite  all  my  blustering  before  soulless  gobernadores  who  would 
have  starved  him  in  the  midst  of  plenty,  despite  all  my  struggles  to  find 
him  food  when  even  I had  gone  without,  the  patient  little  brute  had 
come  to  this  sad  end.  Never  had  I felt  the  loss  of  a traveling  com- 
panion more  keenly.  For  six  weeks  we  had  toiled  together  over  lofty 
Andean  ranges,  across  vast  paramos  with  nothing  in  sight  but  their 
dreary  nothingness.  How  often  had  we  not  listened  to  each  other  con- 
tentedly dining  in  our  adjacent  chambers  at  the  end  of  a laborious 
day?  If  we  had  had  differences,  they  had  been  only  those  which 
arise  between  all  beings  with  wills  of  their  own,  joined  together  on  a 
long  journey.  And  the  end  of  that  journey  had  been  so  near  at  hand. 
I had  long  looked  forward  to  our  triumphal  entry  into  Cuzco  to- 
gether, to  having  our  pictures  proudly  taken  side  by  side  in  the  main 
plaza,  and  to  the  pleasure  of  presenting  him  as  a pet  to  the  children  of 
the  one  American  I knew  dwelt  in  the  ancient  capital  — should  it  turn 
out  that  the  latter  had  any  such  appendages  — that  he  might  toil  no 
more  and  end  his  days  in  the  beloved  mountain  air  of  his  native 
heights.  Instead  of  which,  here  I sat  on  the  edge  of  a Peruvian  trail, 

417 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


gazing  at  a shattered  dream  stiffening  in  the  blazing  sunshine  before 
me. 

But  the  experienced  traveler  will  not  let  misfortune  long  interfere 
with  the  regular  flow  of  his  existence.  Behind  the  bristling  cactus 
hedges  lining  the  road  were  several  Indian  hovels.  I risked  leaving 
alone  what  was  left  of  my  possessions  to  walk  to  the  nearest,  some 
fifty  yards  away.  Two  arrieros,  a boy,  and  a woman,  were  lounging 
within  it.  The  muleteers  spoke  a Ouichua  somewhat  different  from 
that  I had  picked  up ; moreover  they  were  half  drunk.  I offered  them 
a good  reward  to  toss  my  stuff  on  one  of  their  grazing  mules  and  carry 
it  to  “ Challabamba.”  But  they  were  bound  for  “ La  Estrella  ” — 
probably  five  or  six  hours  later  — and  could  not  turn  back.  Perhaps 
it  brings  bad  luck.  The  woman  would  not  be  compromised,  even  to 
the  extent  of  admitting  my  existence.  As  a final  straw  the  boy  re- 
fused a “ peseta  ” to  carry  a note  to  the  hacienda. 

I returned  to  the  scene  of  the  disaster  and  sat  down  hopelessly  in 
the  shrinking  shadow  of  the  hedge.  The  connecting  link  between  a 
sahib  and  his  baggage  kept  running  like  a refrain  through  my  head. 
Indian  travelers  and  mule-trains  passed  to  and,  fro,  staring  curiously 
and  seeming,  in  so  far  as  the  impassive  Indian  face  shows  anything, 
to  smirk  with  satisfaction  at  my  plight.  At  least  I could  pull  my 
belongings  off  the  corpse ; though  not  easily,  with  the  “ diamond- 
hitch  ” and  the  ropes  wound  round  and  round  the  body.  Luckily  the 
animal  had  fallen  on  the  side  carrying  my  “ city  ” clothing,  and  had 
spared  the  developing-tank.  I disentangled  my  still  existent  pos- 
sessions and  piled  them  beside  me  in  the  shade.  An  hour  crawled  by ; 
another  was  crawling.  Something  must  be  done.  I could  neither 
leave  my  baggage  unprotected  here  beside  one  of  the  four  royal  high- 
ways leading  into,  or  out  of  the  City  of  the  Sun  — depending  on  which 
way  one  was  going,  were  one  going  at  all  — nor  could  I carry  it  my- 
self, such  was  the  bulk  to  which  it  had  accumulated.  I drew  out  a 
visiting-card,  that  proof  of  the  caballero  caste  in  South  America,  and 
wrote  upon  it: 

“ Vengo  recomendado  por  los  senores  de  La  Laguna,  pero  a ’tres  cuadras 
de  su  hacienda  me  ha  muerto  de  repente  el  caballo.  Puede  V.  mandarine  un 
indio  para  que  me  ayude  con  el  equipaje?” 

The  owners  of  “ Challabamba  ” were  relatives  of  my  host  of  the 
first  night  out  of  Andahuaylas,  and  he  had  implored  me  to  stop  with 

418 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  SUN 


them.  As  to  the  horse,  it  was  best  not  to  try  to  explain  offhand  that 
it  was  not  one  I had  been  riding.  Awaiting  my  chance,  I picked  out 
an  old  Indian  woman  stubbing  along  the  stony,  rising  trail,  twirling  her 
ubiquitous  yarning-spindle,  and  explained  to  her  in  my  most  fluent  and 
Incaic,  not  to  say  archaic,  Quichua,  that  she  was  to  give  the  note  to 
Don  Francisco  when  she  passed  his  hacienda. 

But  like  most  of  her  race  sent  on  errands,  she  probably  forgot  it, 
or  concluded  I did  n’t  mean  what  I had  said,  or  thought  of  some  other 
incomprehensible  reason  for  not  delivering  it,  such  as  not  having  the 
consent  of  her  yaya,  or  father  confessor,  or  she  decided  to  keep 
it  as  fuel,  or  Don  Francisco  was  “ No  ’sta  ’ca  ” as  usual,  or  he  didn’t 
care  to  have  travelers  recomendado  by  his  relatives,  or  que  se  yo.  The 
empty,  blazing  minutes  expanded  into  half  hours ; these  in  turn  into 
hours,  and  still  life  drifted  eventlessly  on.  I dug  out  a battered  copy 
of  Marcus  Aurelius,  and  strove  to  pass  the  time  as  pleasantly  as  possi- 
ble until  fate  saw  fit  to  make  a suggestion.  Fimping  old  Epictetus 
would  have  been  far  more  to  the  point  under  the  circumstances.  The 
sun  drew  relentlessly  away  on  its  westward  journey,  the  handful  of 
shade  crawled  on  all  fours  under  the  cactus  hedge  and  spread  into 
the  uninviting  field  beyond.  I transferred  my  sundry,  not  to  say 
sun-dried,  chattels  to  the  other  side  of  the  road  and  continued  my 
reading.  An  old,  near-white  fellow  hobbled  past  and  desired  to  know 
what  I was  doing  there.  I replied  that  the  densest  of  human  beings 
could  see  that  I was  installing  an  electric  light-and-power  plant,  and 
could  he,  as  quite  evidently  the  oldest  resident  of  these  parts  and  a 
man  of  extraordinary  intelligence,  suggest  any  means  of  starting  the 
dynamo.  His  brilliant,  but  not  wholly  unexpected  reply  was,  “ Where 
do  you  come  from  where  are  you  going?  ” If  one  dragged  a Peruvian 
out  of  bed  at  midnight  to  say  that  his  wife  had  just  hanged  herself  in 
the  patio  and  should  be  cut  down  as  soon  as  convenient,  he  would  cer- 
tainly cry,  “ Y a ‘onde  vueno  ? ” I finally  stirred  up  his  drivelling 
intellect  to  the  point  where  he  announced  himself  the  owner  of  a small 
hacienda  not  far  away,  and  he  promised  that  as  soon  as  he  returned 
from  a social  call  up  the  road  he  would  see  whether  he  had  an  animal 
that  could  carry  my  stuff  to  his  house,  and  an  Indian  that  cared  to  fetch 
it.  I picked  up  my  book  once  more  — and  just  then  Chusquito  raised 
his  head  and  gazed  listlessly  about  him,  like  one  of  the  opposite  sex 
coming  out  of  a faint,  or  one  of  our  own  regaining  the  first  con- 
sciousness of  the  cold  gray  dawn  of  a morning  after.  Then  getting 

419 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


unsteadily  to  his  feet,  that  deceitful,  ungrateful,  possum-playing  rascal 
stood  up,  staggered  through  the-  cactus  hedge,  and  fell  to  nibbling  the 
stubble  of  the  field  beyond! 

The  octogenarian  had  not  mentioned  the  date  of  his  proposed  re- 
turn and,  whatever  it  was,  it  had  not  arrived  when  there  appeared 
along  the  road  I would  have  traveled  a near-Indian  in  some  cast-off 
clothing  and  the  same  kind  of  Spanish,  leading  a stout,  “ empty  ” 
mule.  Don  Francisco,  as  I had  suspected,  was  not  at  home,  and  la 
senora  had  evidently  slept  the  siesta  on  the  note  before  acting  upon 
it.  Chusquito,  though  on  his  feet  again,  was  of  course  too  weak  to  be 
reloaded,  and  even  in  the  clothes  he  stood  in  I could  only  drag  him 
along  a few  feet  to  the  minute  by  pulling  like  a Dutchman  — or  more 
exactly,  a Dutch  woman  — on  a canal  tow-path,  the  inscrutable  near- 
Indian,  with  the  mule  bearing  my  baggage,  bringing  up  the  funereal 
rear.  A score  of  times  I was  on  the  point  of  abandoning  the  derelict 
far  from  port  and  alfalfa,  but  contained  myself  in  patience,  recalling 
the  former  virtues  of  the  deceiving  creature,  and  sweated  at  last  with 
him  into  the  hacienda  corral.  The  estate  was  just  then  in  supreme 
command  of  a woman  of  such  cold  indifference  to  "my  sad  tale  that  she 
might  as  well  have  spoken  only  Ouichua,  instead  of  being  so  versed 
in  Spanish  that  she  was  performing  the  extraordinary  feat,  for  a 
South  American  country-woman,  of  reading  a novel  of  Dumas  in  that 
tongue.  The  “ parlor  ” of  the  low  adobe  building  was  papered  with 
the  pages  of  illustrated  weeklies  from  many  lands  and  in  many  lan- 
guages, and  there  the  illustrious  and  the  notorious  of  all  countries 
rubbed  shoulders, — the  latest  champion  of  the  fistic  world  beside  the 
ivory-like  dome  of  an  experienced  American  presidential  candidate, 
the  Pope  in  the  act  of  blessing  a group  of  Mexican  bandits,  the  Ameri- 
can rector  of  the  University  of  Cuzco  arm  in  arm,  as  it  were,  with  a 
famous  Spanish  bull-fighter. 

In  a corner  of  the  corral  Chusquito  had  fallen  upon  a heap  of 
alfalfa  in  a way  to  show  that,  whatever  his  appearance,  he  was  far 
from  dead.  But  the  hacienda  people  assured  me  the  animal  could  not 
possibly  carry  my  stuff  to  Cuzco ; that,  like  a nervous  breakdown,  his 
ailment  called  for  long  rest  and  weeks  of  good  feeding.  I might  perder 
cuidado,  however,  as  they  would  lend  me  a chusco  and  an  Indian  for 
the  rest  of  the  journey.  From  their  careful  avoidance  of  any  sug- 
gestions on  the  subject,  it  was  evident  that  they  fancied  I would  leave 
Chusquito  where  he  was,  and  that  they  would  automatically  fall  heir 
to  him.  I may  look  like  that  in  my  pictures,  but  photography  is  at 

420 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  SUN 


best  deceiving.  Moreover,  I had  not  forgotten  that  it  is  a common 
human  failing  to  take  far  less  care  of  that  which  is  given  than  of  that 
which  is  bought.  A wily  old  compadre  of  the  family,  smelling  how 
the  wind  blew,  said  he  would  buy  the  animal  himself  were  it  not  that 
he  had  only  that  week  finished  and  a won  a 27-year  lawsuit  against 
some  Franciscan  friars  for  the  possession  of  an  hacienda,  and  was 
penniless  in  consequence.  The  brother  of  the  absent  Don  Francisco, 
who  chanced  to  ride  over  from  his  neighboring  hacienda,  assured  me 
the  eighteen  soles  I had  paid  in  Huancayo  was  an  “ atrocious  ” price, 
and  after  the  rest  of  the  usual  prelude  to  a bargain  in  Peru,  offered  me 
eight.  I forgot  myself  and  accepted  too  quickly ; whereupon  he  walked 
slowly  around  the  animal  until,  finding  a discolored  fetlock  or  some 
other  fatal  blemish,  he  lightly  broke  his  word  and  offered  six.  After 
a sharp  and  scintillating  exchange  of  gypsying,  I pocketed  seven,  and 
sadly  watched  the  constant  companion  of  my  most  pleasant  six  weeks 
on  the  road  in  Peru  led  slowly  away  to  a large  green  spot  up  the  valley, 
the  order  of  his  new  master,  to  give  him  all  the  alfalfa  he  could  eat, 
ringing  in  his  ears.  Yet  I knew  only  too  well  his  preference  for  the 
tough  paramo  grasses  of  his  native  upper  heights. 

Fa  senora  had  promised  that  I should  start  by  six,  whence  it  was  un- 
usually good  luck  that  I actually  dashed  out  through  the  hacienda 
gate  at  seven,  my  possessions  behind  me  on  a little  gray  chusco  in 
charge  of  one  of  the  wooden-headed  Indians  of  the  region,  sent  to 
lead  the  animal  to  Cuzco  and  back.  The  first  half  of  his  task  did  not 
last  long.  After  I had  paused  to  wait  for  him  a dozen  times  or  more 
in  the  first  furlong,  I came  back  to  kick  him  off  the  end  of  the  tow- 
rope  and  take  personal  charge  of  the  expedition.  Gradually  the  great, 
semi-tropical  valley  where  Chusquito  had  found  the  end  of  his  jour- 
neyings  shrunk  to  a hollow  in  the  earth,  then  to  a mere  hole,  wavy 
blue  with  distance,  that  finally  disappeared  forever  from  my  eyes. 
The  brown  pampa  and  exhilarating  air  of  upper  heights  appeared 
once  more,  with  magnificent  views  of  the  Andes  on  every  hand  as  far 
as  the  eye  could  range.  The  wooden  Indian  disappeared  for  hours, 
and  I fancied  I was  rid  of  him  for  the  rest  of  the  journey.  But  he 
caught  up,  and  dropped  at  the  roadside  with  an  almost  audible  sigh  of 
relief,  the  coca  quid  still  in  his  cheek,  the  bag  of  eggs  I had  entrusted 
to  him  still  intact,  where  I paused  for  dinner  on  the  edge  of  a floor- 
flat  plain  that  had  evidently  once  been  a lake-bottom.  The  mood 
came  upon  me  to  treat  him  as  an  equal,  to  see  what  the  effect  might 
be.  I shared  with  him  such  a meal  as  he  had  certainly  never  before 

421 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


enjoyed;  but  his  outward  expression  showed  neither  gratitude  nor  any 
other  emotion,  though  he  mumbled  the  customary  “ Gracias,  tayta- 
tayta  ” in  the  tone  one  would  expect  from  a wooden  Indian.  A more 
passive  human  being  it  would  be  hard  to  imagine.  He  ate  boiled 
oatmeal  without  a murmur,  though  it  was  plain  he  neither  recognized 
nor  liked  it.  When  I pointed  to  the  approaching  storm  and  mur- 
mured, “ Para  — it  rains,”  he  muttered,  “ Para,  senor.”  “ Munan- 
quichu  cocata  ? ” I asked.  “ Ari,  senor,”  he  mumbled,  and  waited 
like  a stone  image  until  I had  handed  him  a pinch  of  coca  leaves. 
“ Munanquichu  copita?”  “Ari,  senor,”  and  he  drank  the  pisco  as 
impassively  as  he  had  eaten  the  oatmeal.  Had  I announced  that  it 
was  snowing,  or  asked  him  to  take  poison,  I should  have  expected  the 
same  passive  acquiescence. 

The  plain  broadened  to  the  immense  Pampa  de  Anta,  the  “ plain  of 
Xaquixaguana  ” of  Prescott,  stretching  to  far-off  mountain-walls  on 
either  hand.  Along  the  base  of  these,  to  the  left,  hung  some  splendid 
examples  of  ancient  Inca  andenes,  or  terraced  fields.  Thousands  of 
cattle  speckled  the  plain  in  every  direction,  dim  villages  stood  forth 
on  projecting  headlands,  while  several  snow-clads  peered  over  the  bor- 
dering range  to  the  north.  The  ground  was  half-marshy,  but  a broad, 
partly  paved,  raised  highway  stretched  straight  ahead  as  far  as  the  eye 
could  see.  It  began  to  rain.  It  always  does  on  the  Pampa  de  Anta, 
if  local  information  is  trustworthy.  It  was  such  a rain  as  one  rarely 
encounters  in  the  high  Andes,  mixed  with  hail  and  punctuated  by 
roaring  crashes  of  thunder.  Lightning  is  so  frequent  on  the  Pampa 
de  Anta  that  natives  always  fee  their  favorite  saint  before  crossing 
it,  and  the  government,  a bit  more  materialistic  in  its  superstitions, 
has  provided  each  pole  of  the  two-wide  telegraph  line  with  lightning- 
rods.  A well-meaning  Peruvian  had  advised  me,  if,  as  was  certain, 
I should  be  overtaken  by  a thunder-storm  on  the  pampa,  to  take  refuge 
at  once  under  a telegraph-pole  and  remain  there  until  the  storm  was 
over. 

Instead  I splashed  on,  wet  to  the  thighs,  singing  between  the  crashes 
of  thunder,  so  great  was  my  joy  at  approaching  Cuzco.  As  the  storm 
slackened,  the  world  about  me  became  musical  with  the  chorus  of 
frogs.  All  day  the  costume  of  Indians  had  been  gradually  changing. 
The  pancake  hat  of  Cuzco  was  now  in  the  majority ; the  knee  breeches 
and  skirts  were  shorter ; the  faces  were  distinctly  darker  — or  was  it 
dirtier?  — and  even  more  stupid  than  the  type  with  which  I had  grown 
so  familiar.  Greetings  were  more  obsequious  than  ever.  Even  the 

422 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  SUN 


women  raised  their  hats  to  me  as  they  duck-trotted  by,  and  more 
than  one  carried  my  thoughts  back  to  Inca  days  by  a respectful 
“ Buenas  tardes,  Viracocha.” 

It  became  evident  we  could  not  reach  Cuzco  by  daylight.  We 
halted  at  Izcochaca,  the  Indian  curling  up  in  a far  corner  of  the  mud 
corredor  assigned  us,  with  only  his  thin  semi-tropical  garb  upon  him, 
too  passive  to  find  himself  the  ragged  old  poncho  I discovered  in  a 
corner  and  threw  over  him.  It  rained  most  of  the  night,  making 
much  of  the  twelve  miles  left  a quagmire  broken  by  patches  of 
atrocious  cobbling.  No  conquistador  of  old  looked  forward  more 
eagerly  than  I to  the  first  glimpse  of  the  Navel  of  the  Inca  Empire ; 
yet  as  always  at  the  end  of  a long  journey  the  last  miles  seemed  trebly 
drawn  out.  The  road  that  had  been  perfectly  level  since  the  preceding 
noonday  began  to  clamber  over  bumps  and  rises,  from  the  tops  of 
each  of  which  I strained  my  eyes  in  vain  for  the  long-anticipated 
sight.  Towns  grew  up  along  the  way,  birds  sang  in  clumps  of  euca- 
lypti, the  peon  slapped  sluggishly  alofig  behind  me,  apparently  seeing 
no  further  than  his  coca-cud ; broad  vistas  of  a tumbled  and  shadow- 
patched  mountain  world,  with  an  occasional  flash  of  the  long  snow 
and  glacier-clad  cordillera,  spread  and  contracted  as  I hurried  onward. 
The  road  passed  through  deep-rutted  hollows  and  under  the  graceful 
old  arch  of  an  aqueduct  ranging  away  with  giant  strides  across  the 
rolling  uplands ; but  still  no  city.  Again  and  again  I topped  a ridge, 
only  to  be  newly  disappointed,  until  I came  almost  to  fancy  this  was 
only  some  dream  city  of  the  imagination  toward  which  we  were  headed. 

Then  all  at  once,  without  warning,  the  road  dived  downward, 
turned  a sharp  angle,  and  there,  below  and  before  me,  in  mid-morning 
of  October  17,  lay  spread  out  in  all  its  extent  the  City  of  the  Sun. 
Like  the  passing  Indians,  I,  too,  paused  on  the  edge  of  the  rocky  shelf, 
and  was  almost  moved  to  follow  their  lead  in  snatching  off  my  hat 
and  murmuring  reverently,  “ O Ccoscco,  Hatun  Llacta,  Napai  cuiqui 
— Oh,  Cuzco,  Great  City,  I salute  thee!”  For  to  the  aboriginals 
Cuzco  is  still  a sanctified  spot,  venerated  not  only  as  the  abode  of  the 
Incas,  but  of  all  those  deities  that  still,  in  spite  of  its  outward  Chris- 
tianity, preside  over  the  ancient  Empire  of  Tavantinsuyo.  My  peon 
showed  not  a hint  of  surprise  when  I knelt  to  make  a tripod  of 
stones  for  my  kodak,  no  doubt  fancying  it  some  instrument  of  wor- 
ship it  was  quite  natural  any  human  being  should  set  up  at  first  sight 
of  what  to  all  mankind  must  be  the  noblest  scene  in  all  the  world. 

In  a way  his  veneration  was  justified.  Some  have  it  that  Cuzco 

423 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


is  superior  in  situation  to  even  Bogota  and  Quito.  In  physical  beauty 
alone  this  is  not  quite  true.  But  what  with  that,  combined  with  its  his- 
torical memories,  there  are  few  such  fascinating  moments  in  the 
traveler’s  experience  as  this  first  glimpse  of  the  ancient  Inca  capital. 
I,  for  one  at  least,  looked  down  upon  it  with  a thrill  exceeding  even 
that  awakened  by  Rome  or  Jerusalem. 

The  city  covered  the  northern  and  more  elevated  end  of  a half- 
green plain,  enclosed  by  velvety-brown  mountain  flanks  and  dying 
away  in  hazy,  labyrinthian  distance.  On  the  edge  of  the  ridge  on 
which  we  stood,  Sacsahuaman,  a mere  knoll  from  this  height,  with 
its  fortress,  frowned  down  upon  the  city.  A bulking,  two-tower 
cathedral  faced  an  immense  plaza,  faded  red  roofs  giving  the  scene 
its  chief  color,  until  this  broke  into  the  velvet  green  of  the  plain, 
which  in  turn  shaded  into  the  soft  brown  of  the  surrounding 
ranges.  But  neither  words  nor  photographs  can  give  more  than  a 
faint  hint  of  the  charm  and  fascination  of  what  is  in  many  respects 
the  most  interesting  spot  in  the  Western  Hemisphere,  a charm 
enhanced  by  the  anticipation  of  a long  overland  journey.  There 
came  upon  me  pity  for  the  tourist  who  comes  sneaking  into  the 
famous  city  by  train  along  the  valley  below.  This  in  its  turn  was 
succeeded  by  a regret  that  the  hands  of  time  could  not  be  set  back 
400  years,  to  the  day  when  Balboa  first  peered  out  upon  the  Pacific, 
that  I might  sit  here  and  watch  the  activities  of  a world  totally  dif- 
ferent from  that  we  know ; a regret  that  what  men  call  the  Conquest 
of  Peru  ever  happened.  What  days  were  those,  when  there  were 
really  new  worlds  to  discover ! What  would  I not  have  given  to 
have  preceded  Pizarro  a bit  — and  been  provided  with  the  magic  cap 
of  invisibility  to  save  me  from  being  served  up  as  an  exotic  delicacy 
on  the  Inca’s  table. 

A swift,  stony  descent  that  soon  became  a regular  cobbled  stair- 
way, once  topped  by  the  Iluancapuncu,  or  West  Gate,  led  through 
none  too  pleasantly  scented  suburbs,  the  population  staring  agape  at 
sight  of  a white  man  in  shirt-sleeves  and  belligerently  armed  de- 
scending afoot  into  the  famous  city.  The  chusco  and  Indian  fol- 
lowed at  my  heels  across  a great  market  square,  past  a prettily  flowered 
little  rectangle,  and  I marched  at  last  out  upon  the  broad  central 
plaza,  so  densely  populated  with  the  shades  of  history.  I had  loafed 
away  thirty-eight  days  since  leaving  Huancayo,  though  only  twenty- 
two  of  them  had  been  even  partly  spent  on  the  road.  The  distance  had 
proved  almost  exactly  400  miles,  making  a total  of  2380  miles  that  I 

424 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  SUN 


had  covered  on  foot  since  Hays  and  I walked  out  of  the  central  plaza 
of  Bogota  nearly  fourteen  months  before. 

The  City  of  the  Sun,  ancient  capital  of  the  Inca  Empire,  which 
Garsilaso  called  Cozco  and  Stevenson  Couzcou,  is  to-day  but  a shadow 
of  its  once  imperial  grandeur.  The  famous  Inca  historian  states  that 
the  name  corresponded  to  the  Spanish  ombligo,  and  from  his  day  to 
this  writers  have  referred  to  it  as  the  Navel  of  the  Inca  Empire. 
Educated  cuzquenos  of  to-day  deny  this  derivation,  asserting  that  the 
Quichua  word  for  navel  is,  and  always  has  been,  pupa.  The  talkative 
old  successor  of  Valverde  chanced,  when  I called  upon  him,  to  have 
just  been  reading  an  ancient  manuscript  in  which  the  words  ccori 
ccoscco  (crumbs  or  shavings  of  gold),  occurred  frequently  in  the  de- 
scription of  the  city,  and  he  held  this  to  be  the  real  origin  of  the 
name. 

Whatever  of  truth  or  exaggeration  there  may  have  been  in  the 
statements  of  old  chroniclers  that  the  city  gleamed  with  gold  at  the 
time  of  the  Conquest,  little  of  that  royal  aspect  remains.  The  chief 
and  almost  only  material  reminders  of  the  days  of  the  Incas  are  long 
walls  of  beautiful  cut  stone  in  the  central  portion  of  the  modern 
city.  Indeed,  in  all  Peru  the  mementoes  of  the  ancient  race  are  almost 
wholly  confined  to  walls.  Some  of  these  are  “ dressed  down  ” so 
smoothly  that  the  joints  seem  mere  pencil-marks.  Most  of  them  are 
cyclopean,  rough-hewn  boulders  of  irregular  size  and  shape,  similar 
to  the  Pitti  Palace  in  Florence,  which  is  by  no  means  so  perfect 
in  workmanship.  There  are  almost  no  curved  or  circular  walls,  the 
chief  exception  to  this  being  the  former  Temple  of  the  Sun,  now  the 
Dominican  monastery,  where,  like  mud  huts  superimposed  on  the  ruins 
of  a mighty  race,  contented  old  friars  lounge  among  the  glories  of 
long  ago.  The  remnants  are  chiefly  street  after  street  in  which  the 
old  walls  have  been  left  standing  from  six  to  twenty  feet  high,  the 
whitewashed  adobe  of  the  ambitionless  modern  descendants  above 
them.  For  the  most  part  these  form  only  one  side  of  each  street, 
for  the  elbow-rubbing  passageways  of  the  Incas,  of  which  one  still 
remains  intact,  were  too  narrow  even  for  Spanish  notions.  But  the 
city  of  to-day  is  still  defined  by  these  long  reaches  of  elaborately  cut 
stones,  which,  legend  has  it,  divided  the  ancient  capital  into  regular 
squares.  They  are  Egyptian  in  aspect,  these  massive  walls,  shrinking 
toward  the  top,  as  do  the  rare  doors  and  openings  of  Inca  construc- 
tion that  have  survived.  Here  and  there  they  have  been  rudely  torn 
open  to  give  entrance  to  a blacksmith-shop,  a bakery,  a chicharia,  or, 

425 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


it  would  seem,  for  no  other  reason  than  the  mere  lust  for  destruction. 
Everywhere  old  walls  stare  out  upon  the  passerby  with  Indian  stolid- 
ity, as  if  refusing  to  tell  the  stories  they  might  so  easily  if  they  chose. 
Even  where  the  walls  themselves  have  disappeared  to  furnish  build- 
ing material  for  the  churches  and  monasteries  of  the  conquerors,  the 
magnificent  doorways  have  sometimes  been  preserved  as  the  entrance 
to  some  modern  hovel,  and  give  a suggestion  of  what  this  imperial  city, 
so  ruthlessly  destroyed,  might  have  been. 

It  is  only  these  walls  and  the  historical  memories  with  which  they 
are  saturated  that  distinguish  Cuzco  from  any  other  city  of  the 
Sierra.  The  life  of  the  place  is  drab  and  uninspiring,  wellnigh  as 
colorless  as  the  most  monotonous  village  of  the  Andes.  The  me- 
tropolis, no  doubt,  of  the  Western  Hemisphere  in  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury, in  the  twentieth  it  seems  a little  backwater  almost  wholly  cut 
off  from  the  main  stream  of  life.  For  a long  time  after  the  Conquest 
it  was  queen  of  the  Andes,  greater  even  than  Lima.  Then  as  the 
Inca  highway  fell  into  decay  under  the  squabbling  and  incompetent 
successors  of  the  provident  Incas,  it  shrunk  away  into  its  mountain- 
girdled  isolation,  until  to-day  it  is  less  known  to  Peru  itself  than 
is  London  or  Berlin.  For  one  lirneno  who  has  visited  Cuzco,  the  his- 
torical gem  of  the  continent,  a hundred  have  journeyed  to  Paris. 

The  Conquistadores,  fond  of  exaggerating  their  prowess  by  mul- 
tiplying the  numbers  of  their  defeated  enemies,  ascribed  to  Cuzco 
200,000  inhabitants.  This  is  inconceivable.  To-day  a trustworthy 
census,  taken  by  the  American  rector  of  the  university  a few  weeks 
before  my  arrival,  shows  the  population  to  be  slightly  under  20,000. 
It  may,  this  authority  fancies,  have  numbered  100,000  at  the  time  of 
the  Conquest.  The  percentage  of  marriages  was  found  to  be  ex- 
tremely low,  though  the  birth-rate  holds  its  own.  A few  white  officials 
and  comerciantes,  what  would  be  called  petty  shopkeepers  elsewhere, 
are  in  evidence ; otherwise  Cuzco  has  chiefly  the  aspect  of  an  Indian 
town,  its  plazas  too  vast  for  its  shrunken  population. 

An  ancient  chronicler  tells  us  that  “ through  the  heart  of  the  capital 
ran  a river  of  pure  water,  its  sides  faced  with  stone  for  a distance  of 
twenty  leagues.”  Granting  that  he  carelessly  wrote  leagues  when  he 
would  have  said  cuadras,  none  but  a Spaniard  would  call  the  stream 
a river,  and  the  purity  of  its  water,  if  it  ever  existed,  has  long  since 
departed.  To-day  this  “ stone-faced  ” Huatenay  at  the  bottom  of  its 
deep-gashed  gorge  becomes  a trickling  sewer  as  it  enters  the  town, 
passing  directly  beneath  the  principal  buildings  and  carrying  off  such 

426 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  SUN 


refuse  as  its  sluggishness  makes  possible.  The  vast  central  plaza, 
far  from  level  and  once  even  larger  than  to-day,  is  faced  as  usual 
by  the  cathedral,  second  only  to  that  of  Lima,  or,  being  of  stone 
rather  than  of  reeds  and  plaster,  perhaps  to  be  rated  the  first  in  Peru. 
There  is  something  of  the  soft  velvet-brown  of  Salamanca  about  the 
churches  of  Cuzco,  that  calls,  not  for  a kodak,  but  for  an  artist.  The 
blue-black  plaster  interior,  pretending  to  be  also  of  cut  stone,  is  divided, 
after  the  Spanish  custom,  by  the  choir,  with  splendid  carved  stalls. 
In  the  sacristy  are  ranged  the  dusky  portraits  of  all  the  Bishops  of 
Cuzco,  from  sophistical  old  Valverde  to  him  of  the  gold-leaf  theory. 
In  the  scented  twilight  of  the  nave  gather  all  the  motley  population, 
the  male  gente  only  excepted,  after  the  free-for-all  manner  of 
Andean  churches.  Dogs  are  not  permitted  to  enter.  But  it  is  a 
strange  Latin-American  rule  that  cannot  be  circumvented.  I have 
seen  a chola  pause  at  the  door,  sling  her  puppy  in  the  manto  on  her 
back,  as  she  would  have  carried  a baby,  and  enter  to  kneel  before  a 
tinselled  image,  the  puppy  licking  her  face  affectionately  from  time  to 
time  as  she  prayed. 

In  the  center  of  the  plaza  stands  a fountain  topped  by  a life-size 
bronze  Indian.  A figure  of  some  great  Inca?  No,  indeed;  but  a 
North  American  “ redskin,”  feathers,  in  buckskins,  unAndean  haughti- 
ness and  all,  armed  with  such  a bow  and  arrows  as  no  Inca  ever 
beheld.  The  exotic  is  ever  more  pleasing  than  the  local.  The  ornate 
facade  of  “ La  Compania,”  testimonial  to  Jesuit  wealth  in  colonial 
days,  stares  awry  at  the  cathedral.  Around  the  other  sides  of  the 
square  are  the  usual  arched  and  pillared  arcades,  gaudy  with  every- 
thing that  appeals  to  the  eye  and  purse  of  the  Peruvian  muleteer. 
Here  are  gay  leather  knapsacks  in  which  to  carry  his  coca  and  less 
valuable  possessions,  richly  decorated  trappings  for  his  animals, 
quenas,  or  fifes,  to  while  away  the  weary  hours  across  the  unpeopled 
paramos,  and  the  many-colored  “ skating-caps  ” with  earlaps  which  are 
worn  not  only  by  babies,  but  by  many  of  the  Indians  of  surrounding 
hamlets.  The  clashing  of  shod  hoofs  sounds  now  and  then  over  the 
cobbles,  but  the  absence  of  vehicles,  which  is  so  curious  a feature 
of  the  interior  cities  of  the  Andes,  would  be  striking  to  a newcomer. 
A “ ferrocarril  de  sangre,”  what  we  might  call  a street-car  of  flesh 
and  blood  — a roofed  platform  on  wheels  behind  phlegmatic  mules  — 
rambles  down  to  the  station  on  train-days.  Memories  of  viceregal 
times  hover  about  the  rare  sedan-chair  that  serves  the  same  purpose. 
Cuzco  had  no  electric  lights  as  yet,  though  she  continued  to  hope, 

427 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


and  my  friend  Martinelli  had  enstalled  a dynamo  to  operate  his  cinema 
in  the  patio  of  the  “ Hotel  Central.” 

Cuzco  was  the  first  place  in  South  America  with  any  hint  of  a 
tourist  resort  about  it.  Visitors  have  become  almost  familiar  sights, 
and  there  was  already  developing  that  pest  of  European  show-places, 
unwashed  and  officious  urchins  offering  their  services  as  “ guides,” 
an  occupation  undreamed  of  elsewhere  on  the  continent.  A wily 
Catalan  resident  pays  any  street  Arab  twenty  cents  for  bringing  him 
first  news  of  the  arrival  of  a foreigner  — by  train;  those  who  tramp 
in  from  the  north  are,  of  course,  overlooked  — taking  a sporting  chance 
on  recovering  the  dos  rcales  from  the  possible  victim.  But  the  busi- 
ness is  still  in  embryo,  though  there  are  those  who  prophesy  that 
Cuzco  will  some  day  become  the  Rome  of  South  America  — not  en- 
tirely to  its  own  advantage. 

There  are  many  points  of  similarity  between  Cuzco  and  Quito, 
located  at  opposite  ends  of  what  is  left  of  the  ancient  Inca  highway. 
In  climate  they  are  much  alike.  Being  11,380  feet  above  the  sea  and 
on  the  thirteenth  parallel  south,  surrounded  by  high  and  snowy  moun- 
tains, even  though  at  some  distance,  one  would  expect  the  former  capi- 
tal of  Tavantinsuyo  to  be  colder.  But  even  in  this  rainy  season,  though 
the  atmosphere  was  often  lead-heavy  from  the  almost  constant  down- 
pour, it  was  only  more  dreary,  not  lower  in  temperature.  Neither 
of  the  two  cities  has  a river  worthy  the  name;  the  Machangara  and 
the  Huatenay,  with  their  slight  branches,  serve  alike  as  dumping- 
grounds,  and  equally  break  the  soil  with  deep  quebradas.  Splendid 
views  of  both  cities  may  be  had  from  the  mountains  that  shut  them  in, 
though  in  this  respect  Quito  surpasses.  The  soft  evening  air,  the  sing- 
ing of  birds,  the  rows  of  tall,  maidenly-slender  eucalyptus  trees  behind 
massive  mud  walls,  the  long  roads  to  the  railway  stations,  are  alike 
characteristic  of  the  two  towns.  In  both  an  atrocious  din  of  church- 
bells  tortures  the  hours  before  dawn,  though  here  again  the  Ecuadorian 
capital  wins  the  palm ; nor  can  the  cuzqueno  policeman  rival  his  fellow 
of  the  equator  in  shrilling  away  the  monotonous  hours  of  darkness. 
To  nearly  as  great  an  extent  as  in  Quito  the  patios  and  lower  stories 
are  given  over  to  Indians  and  servants,  with  the  “ gente  decente  ” 
holding  the  upper  floor.  Both  towns  are  colorful  in  garb;  both  are 
peerless  when  the  sun  shines,  and  gloomy  under  clouds ; both  have  the 
drowsy  air  of  places  far  removed  from  the  real  world,  with  many  times 
the  number  of  shops  needed  droning  through  a precarious  existence. 
On  the  other  hand,  whereas  the  Indians  of  Quito  speak  Spanish  also, 

428 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  SUN 


here  one  must  know  Quichua  to  carry  on  any  extended  intercourse. 
There  are  a few  beautiful  women  in  Quito,  too;  I never  saw  one  in 
Cuzco,  though  this  may  be  merely  another  instance  of  my  abominable 
luck.  Some  Indian  girls  between  five  and  fifteen  are  pretty,  but  they 
are  so  often  veiled  by  the  grime  of  years  that  the  virtue  must  be 
chiefly  accepted  on  faith.  Nor  has  Cuzco  anything  approaching  that 
unrivalled  circle  of  hoar-headed  peaks  that  ennobles  the  vista  of  its 
rival  to  the  north.  The  two  cities  would  probably  be  about  equal 
in  population  were  Cuzco  also  the  national  capital  - — as  it  should  and 
hopes  some  day  to  be.  “ We  want  to  free  ourselves  from  those  de- 
generate negroes  of  Lima  and  establish  an  independent  government 
under  an  American  protectorate,”  a self-styled  lineal  descendant  of 
the  Incas  by  way  of  Tupac  Amaru  confided  to  me.  As  it  is,  Quito 
is  more  than  three  times  the  larger. 

Cuzco  has  been  called  the  dirtiest  city  on  earth.  I am  not  sure  it 
merits  the  title.  The  Andean  town  that  aspires  to  that  proud  and 
haughty  position  will  have  to  exert  itself  constantly  — no  cuzqueno 
characteristic  — keeping  always  on  the  alert  for  new  and  hitherto  un- 
invented styles  of  uncleanliness ; for  it  will  have  dogged,  unrelenting 
competition,  vastly  more  determined  and  energetic  than  any  other  form 
of  industry.  Quito,  for  instance,  is  a formidable  rival  in  this  also, 
especially  as  Cuzco  has  the  handicap  of  a much  smaller  population  — 
and  in  a contest  of  this  kind  every  little  one  helps.  But  though  it  is 
too  early  to  prophesy  the  final  rating,  there  is  little  doubt  that  the 
former  Inca  capital  will  at  least  win  honorable  mention  — unless  she 
continues  to  import  American  alcaldes. 

Which  brings  me  to  the  chief  influence  in  modern  Cuzco.  Among 
the  legends  of  the  origin  of  the  Inca  Empire  is  the  tradition  of  a tall, 
imperious  man  of  white  skin,  with  blond  hair  on  both  head  and  cheeks, 
who  arose  from  the  sea  and  took  up  the  task  of  teaching  the  Children 
of  the  Sun  more  proper  ways  of  living.  He  was  called  Ingasman, 
whence  some  have  held  that  he  was  a castaway  Briton  from  some 
ship  blown  to  these  distant  shores  long  before  the  days  of  Columbus. 
A fantastic  yarn;  yet  is  it  impossible?  The  imagination  likes  to  dwell 
on  the  possibility  of  the  improbable  story.  Such  an  origin  might 
account  for  the  stolid  British  temperament  of  the  Indians  of  the 
Andes ; as  to  complexion,  leave  an  Englishman  in  the  tropics  for  gen- 
erations and  the  result  would  be  no  darker  than  the  self-styled  lineal 
descendant  of  Tupac  Amaru  above  mentioned.  Whatever  the  truth 
of  the  legend,  the  modern  teacher  of  the  Children  of  the  Sun  came 

429 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


from  the  sea  also, — an  enthusiastic,  hopeful  young  American  who  is 
officially  rector  of  the  university,  but  who,  as  town  councilor  and  even 
mayor,  has  been  responsible  for  most  of  the  local  improvements  of 
recent  years.  For  all  the  labors  of  Ingasman,  the  town  was  probably 
not  noted  for  its  immaculateness  before  the  Conquest ; to-day  it  is  of 
that  stagnant,  Latin-American  temperament  that  can  be  set  in  motion 
only  by  some  external  force.  Thus  we  have  the  anomaly  of  seeing  that 
“ picturesqueness,”  so  often  closely  allied  to  uncleanliness,  which  Amer- 
icans travel  to  Cuzco  to  see,  being  constantly  reduced  by  one  of  their 
own  race.  Yet  the  influence  of  a single  individual,  however  energetic, 
is  limited ; hence  one  must  still  be  circumspect  in  inspecting  old  walls 
and  Inca  ruins,  and  the  wise  man  always  boils  his  water  on  the  banks 
of  the  stinking  Huatenay. 

Of  the  old  Inca  race  there  remain  few  traces.  The  vast  majority 
of  the  20,000  cuzquenos  are  “ descendants  of  the  Incas  ” only  in  the 
loose  acceptance  of  that  phrase.  For  want  of  a proper  name  the 
people  of  Tavantinsuyo,  the  Four  Corners  of  the  Earth,  have  come 
to  be  called  Incas,  as  the  inhabitants  of  the  United  States  are  called 
Americans  for  lack  of  a national  adjective.  As  a matter  of  fact,  an 
mca  was  a member  of  the  royal  family,  of  which  the  Inca  Ccdpac  was 
the  ruling  chief.  It  is  easy  to  imagine  other  peoples  quarreling  with 
the  race  over  their  name  — to  their  supreme  indifference  — protesting 
that  they,  too,  inhabited  the  Four  Corners  of  the  Earth,  with  the  same 
right  to  the  term  as  the  tribes  of  Cuzco ; and  referring  to  the  latter 
privately  by  something  corresponding  to  “ yanqui  ” or  “ gringo.” 

The  thick  upper  lip,  wide  nostrils,  and  broad  face  of  the  aboriginal 
race  shows  in  some  degree  in  all  but  a few  cuzquenos;  those  of  full 
Indian  blood  still  make  up  a large  percentage  of  the  population.  The 
Cuzco  Indian  is  a type  by  himself.  His  skin  is  darker,  his  manner 
more  cringing,  his  gait  more  slinking,  than  his  fellows  elsewhere ; 
the  faces  of  both  males  and  females  have  a brutalized  expression 
that  seems  to  mark  them  as  the  most  degenerate  of  all  the  Andean 
tribes.  Rumor  has  it  that  they  retain  some  slight  and  sadly  mixed 
traditions  of  Huayna  Ccapac  and  of  the  days  when  the  native  Empire 
occupied  this  vast  plateau ; but  they  are  extremely  chary  of  sharing 
any  information  they  may  possess.  The  Inca  rule  of  having  dis- 
tinguishing costumes  for  each  community  still  holds,  especially  in  the 
matter  of  head-dress,  and  it  is  as  easy  for  the  initiated  to  recognize 
the  birthplace  of  an  Indian  by  his  garments  as  to  know  a Hindu’s 
caste  from  his  turban.  Many  from  the  towns  surrounding  Cuzco  wear 

43° 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  SUN 


knitted,  tasseled  caps  of  gay  colors,  with  earlaps.  Those  of  the  city 
are  noted  for  their  “ pancake  ” hats,  common  to  both  sexes.  These 
are  round  disks  of  straw,  covered  with  flannel  or  an  imitation  of 
velveteen,  one  side  of  faded  black  with  spoke-like  stripes  of  color 
or  gilt  braid,  the  other  brilliant  or  dull  red,  according  to  its  age, 
which  is  generally  advanced.  In  fine  weather  this  is  worn  black 
side  up ; in  wet  it  is  reversed.  The  women  are  invariably  barefoot, 
the  men  usually  so,  or  with  at  most  a strip  of  leather  to  protect  their 
soles;  except  that  old  men  who  have  once  wielded  the  silver-mounted 
cane  of  authority  over  their  section  of  the  community  uphold  their 
dignity  by  wearing  on  Sundays  and  feast-days  heavy,  native  shoes 
often  with  large  buckles  and  always  without  socks.  The  women  wear 
carelessly  fastened  blouses  of  coarse  material,  heavy  skirts  bunched 
about  their  waists,  and  a shawl  fastened  with  one  pin  of  large,  fanci- 
ful head.  The  men  dress  in  tight,  ragged  knee-breeches  or  loose, 
shoddy  trousers  of  varying  lengths,  and  ponchos  which  prove  that  full 
use  is  made  of  the  little  packages  of  crude  analine  dyes  sold  in  the 
market-square. 

The  quiet  of  this  chief  gathering-place  is  unusual.  It  has  no  clatter, 
but  only  a suppressed  hum ; for  the  Indian  of  Cuzco  is  as  silent  as  he 
is  inoffensive.  Here  huge  strawberries  are  sold  at  twenty-five  cents  a 
hundred,  the  primitive-minded  female  vendors  counting  them  out  by 
tens  in  hissing  Quichua  sibilants.  The  hot  country  is  only  a day’s 
tramp  from  Cuzco ; hence  tropical  as  well  as  temperate  fruits,  are 
displayed,  though  often  sadly  crushed  and  maltreated  by  their  trans- 
portation in  sacks  or  nets  on  human  backs.  The  Indians  are  here  the 
same  beasts  of  burden  as  elsewhere  in  the  Andes.  It  is  no  uncommon 
thing  to  see  a rather  small  man  trot  the  mile  from  market  to  railway 
station  with  half  a beef  on  his  back.  The  wooden-headedness  of  the 
aboriginal,  as  well  as  his  lack  of  strength  for  any  labor  except  carrying, 
is  often  in  evidence.  I saw  one  ordered  to  take  an  iron  wheelbarrow 
to  another  part  of  town.  He  removed  the  wheel  and  bound  it  on  his 
wife’s  back  with  a llama-hair  rope,  slung  the  rest  on  his  own  shoulders 
in  the  same  manner,  and  away  they  trotted  one  behind  the  other. 

When  all  is  said  and  done  the  Andean  Indian  remains  an  enigma 
to  the  foreigner.  At  the  end  of  a year  of  constant  intercourse  with 
him  the  traveler  can  quickly  sum  up  his  real  knowledge  of  a race 
whose  internal  workings  he  has  only  guessed,  confessing  an  inability 
to  see  from  the  aboriginal’s  point  of  view,  to  be  aware  with  his  con- 
sciousness. There  is  an  enormous  difference  between  the  South  Amer- 

431 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


ican  Indian  and  the  bearers  of  the  same  misnomer  in  our  own  country. 
The  majority  of  our  tribes  were  warriors,  with  an  obstinate  courage 
that  took  little  account  of  odds.  They  could  be  killed ; they  could  never 
be  enslaved  to  a degree  that  made  them  profitable  servants.  From 
Tehuantepec  southward,  on  the  other  hand,  the  aboriginals  are  noted 
for  a subservience,  not  to  say  timidity,  that  made  it  possible  for  the 
Spaniards  to  exploit  them  ruthlessly,  as  do  their  descendants  to  this 
day.  Was  this  characteristic  the  result  or  the  cause  of  the  govern- 
ment under  which  the  Conquistadores  found  them?  Ruled  by  the 
Incas  in  a far  more  autocratic  form  of  imperialism  than  the  worst 
known  to-day,  carrying  authority  into  the  very  depths  of  their  cabins 
and  the  most  personal  conduct  of  their  lives,  the  Indians  of  the  Andes 
were  robbed  of  all  initiative  — granting  that  they  ever  possessed  any  — 
and  became  the  most  passive  of  human  creatures.  Having  imbued 
their  subjects  with  a sort  of  fatalism,  a non-resistance  to  anything 
they  conceived  as  authority,  above  all  by  convincing  them  of  their 
own  divine  origin,  the  Incas  made  their  conquest  by  the  Spaniards 
easy ; for  the  credulous  masses  readily  accepted  these  bearded  strangers 
as  Children  of  the  Sun  also,  to  whom  any  resistance  would  be  absurd. 
Thus  must  all  false  doctrines  prove  in  time  a boomerang  to  those  who 
foster  them. 

. To-day  the  domination  once  held  by  the  Incas  has  been  taken  over 
by  the  priests,  public  functionaries,  and  the  patron,  whose  wills  are 
obeyed  without  question.  In  the  eyes  of  the  Indian  the  priest  is  the 
representative  of  God  on  earth,  to  whom  he  must  show  absolute  sub- 
mission and  obedience,  as  to  one  who  holds  the  key  to  that  place  of 
primitive  joys  and  freedom  from  the  sorrows  and  hardships  of  this 
world  to  which  he  conceives  death  to  lead.  That  the  priest  may  be 
harsh  and  unkindly,  or  worse,  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  case.  Even 
the  God  of  his  conception  is  cruel  and  vengeful,  taking  pleasure  in 
bringing  down  misfortunes  on  his  head,  and  to  be  placated  by  any 
means  in  his  power.  Were  priest  and  authorities  true  to  their  mis- 
sions, their  domination  over  the  Indian  might  be  advantageous.  Too 
often  they  are  quite  the  contrary.  The  authorities  are  disdainful,  look- 
ing upon  their  positions  merely  as  opportunities  for  personal  gain ; the 
priest  is  less  often  a shepherd  than  a wolf  preying  upon  his  flock  with 
impunity.  Too  often  priest  and  authorities  join  together  to  exploit 
the  aboriginal  with  liquor  and  church  festivals,  his  only  recreations,  at 
times  even  inventing  the  latter  to  make  an  excuse  for  exploitation. 
Whatever  he  may  once  have  been,  the  Indian  of  the  Cordillera  is  a 

432 


> 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  SUN 


child,  to  be  governed  by  a kindly  father,  as  the  Incas  seem  to  some 
extent  to  have  been.  The  civilization  which  the  Spaniard  is  reputed  to 
have  brought  him  is  nothing  of  the  sort.  Garsilaso  assures  us  that  the 
masses  were  little  better  than  domestic  animals,  even  at  the  time  of 
the  Conquest.  They  were  certainly  in  no  worse  state  than  to-day. 
That  he  should  have  remained  or  fallen  so  low  is  difficult  for  us  of 
the  hopeful  United  States  to  understand;  it  would  be  more  easily 
understood  in  India  with  its  fixed  castes,  or  even  in  England,  where 
certain  boys  are  born  with  the  necessity  of  lifting  their  caps  to  certain 
other  boys.  His  stolidity  passes  all  conception.  He  is  native  to,  and 
of  a piece  with,  the  pampa,  the  bare,  treeless  upland  world  where  the 
dreary  expanse  of  brown  earth  and  cold  blue  sky  incites  neither  am- 
bition nor  friendliness,  neither  hopes  nor  aspirations.  Hence  his  flat, 
joyless  face  with  its  furtive  eyes  suggests  a soul  contracted  upon 
itself,  an  aridity  of  sentiments,  an  absolute  lack  of  aesthetic  affec- 
tions. Passively  sullen,  morose,  and  uncommunicative,  he  neither  de- 
sires nor  aspires,  and  loves  or  abhors  with  moderation.  The  native 
language  is  scanty  and  cold  in  terms  of  endearment ; I have  never 
seen  the  faintest  demonstration  of  affection  between  Indians  of  the 
two  sexes,  though  plenty  of  evidence  of  bestial  lust.  Even  his  music 
is  a monotonous  wailing,  an  interminable  sob  on  a minor  key.  He 
lacks  will-power,  perseverance,  confidence,  either  in  himself  or  others, 
and  has  a profound  abhorrence  of  any  ways  that  are  not  his  ways. 
He  works  best  in  “ bees,”  with  the  beating  of  a drum,  the  wail  of  a 
quena,  and  frequent  libations  of  chicha  to  cheer  him  on,  as,  no  doubt, 
in  the  days  of  the  Incas.  He  is  noted  for  long-distance  endurance ; 
yet  this  is  not  so  great  as  is  commonly  fancied.  Like  an  animal,  he 
cannot  go  “ on  his  nerve,”  or  will  not,  which  amounts  to  the  same 
thing.  Try  to  hurry  him  and  it  will  be  found  that  he  needs  fifteen 
days  rest  each  month,  like  the  llama. 

From  his  earliest  years  the  Andean  Indian  forms  a conception  of 
life  as  something  sinister  and  painful.  As  a baby,  as  soon  as  another 
uncomplaining  little  creature  usurps  his  place  on  the  maternal  back, 
he  is  shut  up  in  some  noisome  patio  or  hut,  along  with  chickens, 
guinea-pigs,  and  new-born  sheep,  with  which  he  fights  for  his  scanty 
fare  of  a handful  of  toasted  corn.  Rolling  about  in  his  own  filth  and 
that  of  the  animals,  who  now  and  again  all  but  outdo  him  in  combat, 
he  reaches  the  age  of  four  or  five,  and  then  begins  his  life-long 
struggle  with  hostile  nature.  In  the  country  he  takes  to  shepherding 
the  family  pigs,  then  a flock  of  sheep  of  the  patron,  learning  the 

433 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


use  of  the  sling  and  to  wail  mournful  ditties  on  his  reed  fife.  Here, 
with  no  other  covering  than  a coarse  homespun  garment  open  to  the 
waist  and  barely  reaching  the  knees,  he  sits  day  after  day  contemplating 
the  dreary  expanse  of  puna,  until  its  very  nothingness  turns  to  melan- 
choly in  his  soul.  In  town  he  is  “ farmed  out,”  or  virtually  sold  into 
slavery  to  some  family,  learning  a few  ways  of  the  whites,  some 
Castilian,  which  he  commonly  refuses  to  talk  later  in  life,  and  also 
the  injustice  of  man,  or  the  habit  of  considering  himself  too  low  to 
be  reached  by  justice.  When  he  is  older,  and  grown  superstitious 
with  listening  to  the  tales  of  the  yatiris,  his  labor  is  still  heavier.  He 
guides  the  clumsy  wooden  plow  that  is  his  notion  of  the  last  word 
in  mechanical  inventions,  or  carries  donkey-loads  on  his  back.  Nature 
yields  only  to  hard  struggle  and  great  perseverance  in  tilling  the  sterile 
soil ; the  sun  is  parsimonious  with  its  warmth ; the  very  fuel  of  dung 
costs  hard  labor  to  gather  on  these  treeless  heights.  Or  perhaps  the 
authorities  come  to  carry  him  off  to  serve  as  a soldier  of  a country 
he  hardly  knows  the  existence  of,  probably  to  die  of  the  diseases 
engendered  in  his  over-developed  lungs  in  the  dreaded  lowlands  of 
coast  or  montana.  People  of  scanty,  inclement  soil,  mountaineers 
in  general,  are  canny  and  lacking  in  generosity  by  nature;  add  to 
this  that  he  was  forbidden  the  use  of  money  under  the  Incas,  and 
it  is  small  wonder  the  Indian  will  give  or  sell  his  meager  produce 
only  by  force.  Tight-fisted  and  frugal,  he  lives  for  days  on  a handful 
of  parched  corn  and  his  beloved  coca,  of  the  depressing  effect  of 
which  he  has  no  notion.  To  sleep  he  needs  only  the  hard  ground, 
be  it  in  his  own  hut  or  out  under  the  shivering  stars,  using  perhaps 
a stone  as  pillow,  if  there  be  one  within  easy  reach.  He  is  a tireless 
pedestrian;  his  corneous  hoofs  are  impervious  to  the  roughest  going; 
he  sets  out  on  whatever  journey  fate  or  his  masters  assign  him, 
knowing  that  if  he  lives  he  will  some  day  come  back  to  the  point  of 
departure.  For  he  has  an  irrepressible  love  for  his  native  spot,  the 
mud  den  where  he  was  born,  however  miserable  or  inclement,  and 
will  not  abandon  his  home  permanently  under  any  circumstances.  If 
he  does  not  return,  it  is  because  some  misfortune  has  overtaken  him 
on  the  trail. 

The  woman  lives  the  same  life  from  babyhood;  and  in  some  ways 
her  duties  are  still  more  onerous.  Rude  and  torpid  as  the  male,  she 
neither  conceives  nor  possesses  any  of  those  softer  qualities  peculiar 
to  her  sex.  When  trouble  overtakes  her  she  does  not  complain,  but 
suffers  and  weeps  — if  at  all  — alone,  an  utter  stranger  to  pity  in 

434 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  SUN 


either  its  passive  or  active  form.  Strong  as  a draft-horse,  she  knows 
none  of  the  infirmities  to  which  modern  civilized  woman  is  subject. 
She  gives  birth  to  a child  virtually  every  year,  often  from  the  age 
of  fifteen  on,  without  any  species  of  preparation  or  precaution,  washes 
it  in  the  nearest  brook,  slings  it  on  her  back,  and  goes  on  about  her 
business. 

The  husbandman  of  the  puna  plants  a few  potatoes,  a little  quinoa, 
perhaps  some  barley,  clinging  to  the  primitive  ways  of  his  ancestors  to 
remote  generations.  A good  harvest  does  not  depend  upon  proper 
planting  or  fertilization,  but  on  the  changes  of  the  moon  and  stars, 
and  the  propitiation  of  the  fetishes  to  which  he  still  secretly  gives 
his  adherence  in  spite  of  his  ostensible  conversion  to  Christianity. 
He  considers  himself  a being  apart  from  the  governing  class,  refer- 
ring to  himself  as  “ gente  natural  ” and  to  his  superiors  as  “ gente 
blanca,”  as  our  southern  negroes  distinguish  between  “ white  folks  ’’ 
and  “ colored  folks.”  He  takes  no  part  whatever  in  political  matters, 
rarely  indeed  having  any  conception  of  the  country  to  which  he  belongs. 
Anything  which  does  not  touch  him  personally  he  looks  upon  with 
profound  indifference  and  disdain.  He  is  submissive  as  a brute,  lives 
without  enthusiasms,  without  ambitions,  in  a purely  animal  passivity 
that  is  the  despair  of  those  who  are  moved  to  an  attempt  to  better 
his  lot. 

Some  knowledge  of  Ouichua  is  essential  to  intercourse  with  the 
mass  of  the  population  of  Cuzco,  as  it  is  to  the  convenience  of  the 
lone  traveler  down  the  Andes.  Even  in  the  city  a large  number  of 
the  “ gente  del  pueblo  ” cannot,  or  will  not,  speak  Spanish ; in  the 
villages  round  about  it  is  a rare  man  who  has  a suggestion  of  Cas- 
tilian. All  classes,  on  the  other  hand,  speak  the  aboriginal  tongue, 
by  necessity  if  not  by  choice.  The  majority,  indeed,  imbibe  it  with 
their  nurse’s  milk,  learning  Spanish  as  an  alien  language  later  in 
life.  A professor  of  the  local  university,  boasting  a Ph.D.,  assured 
me  that  he  did  not  know  a word  of  Castilian  when  he  first  entered 
school  at  the  age  of  seven.  After  the  revolt  of  Tupac  Amaru  an  edict 
was  promulgated  prohibiting  the  use  of  Ouichua,  as  it  did  the  native 
costume,  and  even  commanded  that  all  musical  instruments  of  the 
aboriginals  be  destroyed ; but  like  many  a Spanish- American  law  this 
was  never  strictly  enforced.  To-day  Cuzco  is  the  Florence  of  Qui- 
chua,  where  it  has  retained  its  purest  form,  least  influenced  by  the 
Spanish,  and  there  are  many  persons  of  high  social  standing,  the 
women  especially,  who  speak  it  by  preference. 

435 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 

It  is  typical  of  the  Latin-American  that  those  things  which  are  of 
the  soil,  and  have  been  familiar  since  childhood,  are  treated  with  con- 
tempt, are  considered  inferior  to  anything  possessing  the  glamor  of 
distance.  Thus  Quichua,  like  all  survivals  of  “ los  Gentiles,”  is  looked 
down  upon  by  the  “ cultured  ” caste  throughout  the  Andes  as  some- 
thing appertaining  to  the  lower  classes,  to  be  avoided  as  diligently 
as  manual  labor.  “ Vulgarly  speaking  ” is  the  expression  with  which 
the  cane-carrying  Peruvian  apologetically  prefaces  any  use  of  the 
native  tongue.  “No  se  dice  allco,  se  dice  perro,”  a mother  re- 
proves the  child  that  points  to  a dog  with  a lisp  of  the  aboriginal 
word.  But  as  usual,  environment  is  more  powerful  than  maternal 
desires,  and  the  child  grows  more  fluent  in  the  speech  of  the  Indians 
than  in  the  aristocratic  Spanish.  The  tendency  to  scorn  it  seems  a 
pity  to  the  traveler,  for  the  ancient  tongue  is  certainly  worth  pre- 
serving, and  its  preservation  depends  chiefly  on  Cuzco.  The  Ameri- 
can Rector  of  the  University  has  done  much  to  reassure  the  town 
on  the  importance  of  its  mission  in  this  respect.  Already  much  has 
been  lost.  The  best  quichuaist  in  town  did  not  know  the  words  for 
boat  or  island,  though  these  are  familiar  enough  wherever  any  body 
of  water  exists  in  the  Andes.  Shortly  before  my  arrival  the  ancient 
drama  “ Ollantay  ” had  been  performed,  and  was  found  to  contain 
many  words  which  even  those  whose  mother-tongue  is  Quichua  did 
not  understand.  As  the  quipus,  or  knotted  strings,  was  the  only 
form  of  writing  known  to  the  Incas,  authoritative  interpretation  has 
been  lost  with  the  quipumayos  who  were  trained  to  read  them.  The 
tongue  of  to-day  has  suffered  much  admixture,  many  Spanish  words 
having  been  “ quichuaized  ” when  there  was  no  necessity  for  it,  until 
there  remains  a language  as  bastardized  as  the  “ German  ” of  rural 
Pennsylvania.  Not  a few  have  a distinctly  hazy  notion  of  the  line 
between  the  two  tongues.  “ Medio,”  said  Alejandro,  my  one-eyed 
hotel  servant,  “ is  Quichua,  and  ‘ cinco  centavos  ’ is  Spanish.”  How 
should  he  know  which  was  which  of  the  two  languages  he  had  spoken 
from  childhood,  neither  of  which  he  could  read  nor  write?  There  is 
less  excuse  for  the  assurance  of  persons  of  some  education  that  “ asno  ” 
is  Quichua  and  “ burro  ” Spanish,  completely  overlooking  the  fact  that 
the  Conquistadores  brought  not  only  the  donkey,  but  both  names, 
with  them.  Now  and  again  some  expression  from  the  lips  of  an  Indian 
quaintly  recalls  the  history  of  the  Peruvians  and  their  two-branch 
ancestry  to  remote  generations.  “ Ojala,  Dios  pagarasunqui ! ” for  in- 
stance is  a mixture  of  Arabic,  Spanish,  and  Quichua  in  as  many  words. 

436 


The  first  view  of  Cuzco,  at  the  point  where  all  Indians,  male  or  female,  going  or  coming, 
pause  and,  uncover  and,  looking  down  upon  the  City  of  the  Sun  below, 
murmur,  “Oh,  Cuzco,  Great  City,  I salute  thee!" 


It  requires  at  least  three  persons  to  shoe  a horse  or  mule,  as  it  does  to  milk  a cow,  in 
the  Andes.  Ordinarily  the  blacksmith  is  not  so  bold  as  this  one,  but  stands 
at  arm’s-length  from  the  hoof.  In  the  background  is  one  of  the 
many  old  Inca  walls  on  which  the  modern  dwellings 
of  Cuzco  are  superimposed 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  SUN 


Yet  after  all,  the  ancient  tongue  of  the  Incas,  variously  called 
Quichua,  Quechua,  and  Keshua  (with  the  most  guttural  of  sounds), 
has  survived  to  a greater  extent  than  any  other  American  dialect. 
Some  have  called  it  “ Runa  Simi,”  or  general  language  of  the  common 
people ; but  the  quichuaists  of  Cuzco  insist  that  it  is  rather  the  Inca 
or  court  language  that  has  remained.  Garsilaso  complained  that  even 
in  the  time  of  the  Incas  there  was  a “ confusion  and  multitude  of 
tongues,”  with  a new  dialect  almost  every  league.  He  who  has  at- 
tempted to  make  his  way  down  the  Andes  on  a fixed  vocabulary  will 
recognize  the  justice  of  this  plaint.  Before  we  left  Panama,  Hays  and 
I had  made  up  a lexicon,  only  to  find  that  all  but  the  commonest 
words  changed  so  often  that  it  was  of  little  value.  What  is  called 
Quichua  is  spoken  more  or  less  continuously  from  Quito  to  southern 
Bolivia,  with  scatterings  through  northern  Argentine.  But  the  dia- 
lects of  Ayacucho,  Huancayo,  the  valley  of  Ancachs,  and  especially 
of  Cajamaca  and  further  north,  include  many  terms  which  the  purists 
of  Cuzco  will  not  grant  an  honest  pedigree.  Only  in  the  ancient 
capital  has  it  retained  anything  like  the  original  pronunciation,  with 
those  “ sounds  harsh  and  disagreeable  to  our  ears  ” which  Garsilaso 
sought  to  soften  with  editorial  license.  Philologists  assure  us  that 
the  language  rose  in  the  north  and  moved  southward,  citing  the  use 
of  more  archaic  terms  in  the  more  southern  dialects ; for  example 
yacu,  which  is  water  in  the  north,  is  flowing  water,  or  river,  in  the 
south,  where  iinu  designates  the  liquid.  The  spread  of  Quichua  has 
been  attributed  to  culture  rather  than  conquest,  that  is,  it  was  adopted 
by  new  tribes  coming  under  the  Inca  influence,  not  because  it  was 
forced  upon  them,  but  because  it  afforded  a more  perfect  means  of  com- 
munication than  their  primitive  dialects. 

It  is  a real  language,  with  complete  grammar  and  all  the  flexibility 
and  shades  of  expression  of  our  classical  tongues.  Philologists  have 
attempted  in  vain  to  represent  its  sounds  by  Roman  letters  or  com- 
binations thereof,  even  by  inventing  new  characters.  But  these  are 
makeshifts  at  best,  and  the  pronunciation  can  only  be  learned  by  prac- 
tice in  its  native  land.  Roughly  speaking,  it  includes  all  the  letters 
of  the  Spanish  alphabet  except  b,  d,  f,  g,  j,  v,  x,  and  z.  But  many  of 
those  remaining  must  be  doubled  or  otherwise  modified  to  represent 
sounds  unknown  to  European  tongues.  L is  rare,  while  the  sound 
represented  by  the  Spanish  11  is  frequent;  there  is  no  rr,  but  r is  much 
used.  Harsh  in  its  phonetics,  it  has  a suggestion  of  the  Chinese  in 
that  three  pronunciations  of  the  same  word,  labial,  palatal,  or  throaty, 

437 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


give  it  quite  different  meanings.  The  traveler  who  pauses  in  the  trail 
to  call  out  “ Cancha  acca?”  to  an  Indian  hut  displaying  the  white 
flag  that  announces  chicha  for  sale,  would  say  something  quite  dif- 
ferent than  he  intended  if  he  gave  the  cc  the  sound  represented  by 
the  single  c.  The  accent  is  nearly  always  on  the  penult,  lending  the 
speech  a fixed  and  almost  monotonous  rhythm.  Technically  speaking, 
Quichua  is  aglutinative,  that  is,  formed  by  the  tacking  on  of  suffix 
after  suffix,  until  in  some  cases  an  entire  sentence  consists  of  a single 
word,  making  it  possible  to  express  fine  shades  of  meaning  fully 
equal  to  the  Spanish  with  its  diminutives  and  affixes.  It  has  no 
articles,  no  genders  (at  least  expressed),  no  individual  prepositions, 
and  has  virtually  only  one  verb  conjugation.  The  plural  is  formed  by 
adding  cuna;  the  six  cases,  corresponding  to  the  Latin,  by  suffixes. 
Thus  huarma  is  boy,  huarmacuna,  boys;  huarmacunacta  is  the  accusa- 
tive, huarmacunamanta,  of  the  boys.  In  like  manner  the  genitive  is 
formed  by  combination ; acca  is  chicha,  Jutasi,  house,  and  accahuasi, 
tavern.  The  doubling  of  words  gives  a collective  and  often  quite  dif- 
ferent meaning;  thus  rumi  is  stone,  rumirumi,  a stony  place;  runa  is 
man,  runaruna,  a crowd ; quina  is  bark,  quinaquina , the  medicinal  bark 
from  which  we  get  quinine,  as  well  as  the  name  thereof.  Its  system  of 
counting  is  built  up  on  the  fingers,  as  in  all  languages,  but  is  some- 
what cumbersome  in  larger  combinations  — which  none  of  the  ignorant 
Indians  of  to-day  are  capable  of  using.  Thus  299  is  iscaypacliac- 
chuncaiscconniyoc ! 

As  in  the  case  of  all  more  or  less  primitive  languages,  Quichua  is 
often  anamatopoetic, — its  words  formed  from  sounds  connected 
with  the  object  expressed.  Why  the  animal  we  miscall  guinea-pig 
should  be  cui  (kwee)  to  the  natives  of  the  Andes  no  one  who  has 
shivered  through  a night  in  an  Indian  hut  listening  to  the  falsetto, 
grunting  squeak  of  those  irrepressible  little  creatures  will  wonder; 
why  a baby  is  a guagua  (wawa)  none  need  ask.  As  in  most  lan- 
guages, mama  is  mother;  on  the  other  hand,  father  is  tata,  or  tayta; 
the  newcomer  finds  papa  already  in  use  to  designate  potato,  as  it 
has  come  to  in  all  Spanish-America,  as  well  as  in  Andalusia.  The 
primitive  origin  of  the  Inca  tongue  is  further  demonstrated  by  many 
crudities  of  expression,  and  an  indelicacy  in  the  use  of  certain  terms 
that  have  been  banished  from  polite  intercourse  among  European  na- 
tions. Nustahispana,  or  pcnccacuy  (shame)  are  cases  in  point.  Mar- 
riage-time is  Huarmihapiy pacha , literally,  “ the  time  to  chase  a woman.” 
It  is  natural  that  many  more  aboriginal  words  should  have  survived 

438 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  SUN 


and  become  a part  of  the  general  language  in  a land  where  the  Indians 
have  survived  themselves,  than  in  one  where  the  race  has  been  virtu- 
ally wiped  out,  or  at  least  set  apart,  as  with  us.  Hence  the  language 
of  Spanish-America  is  much  richer  than  our  own  in  terms  from  the 
aboriginal  tongue.  The  ignorant  Spanish  Conquistadores,  as  devoid  of 
“ language  sense  ” as  the  most  uncouth  American  “ drummer,”  gave 
many  of  the  native  words  queer  twists ; to  their  untrained  ears 
Anti  sounded  like  Andes,  tampu  like  tambo,  pampa  like  bamba,  and 
Biru  like  Peru.  Yet  Quichua  has  enriched  even  the  languages  of  the 
world  at  large  with  many  words,  such  as  llama,  pampa,  condor,  and 
alpaca. 

A brief  sample  of  the  ancient  tongue  might  not  be  amiss.  Few 
works  except  the  Bible  have  been  printed  in  the  vernacular ; and  this 
was  done  not  that  the  Indians  might  read  it,  since  there  probably  exists 
no  man  able  to  read  Quichua  who  cannot  also  read  Spanish,  but  for  the 
use  of  missionaries  and  priests  among  the  Andean  tribes.  Many 
words  for  which  there  existed  no  equivalent  have,  of  course,  been 
“ quichuaized,”  and  the  letters  retain  their  Spanish  values.  The  para- 
ble of  the  man  who  built  his  house  on  sand  instead  of  rock  (St. 
Luke,  VI,  48)  runs: 

Ricchacun  uc  huasihacluc  ccaryman ; pi  yallicta  allpata  allpisca  cca- 
ccahuan  tecsirkan.  Inas  paractin  unu  llocllapi  yaicumurkan  mayutac 
caparispa  saccay  huasiman  choccacurkan  rnana  cuyurichiyta  atispa 
huasi  ccaccapatapi  tiactin. 

Cuzco,  the  last  foothold  of  Spanish  power  on  the  American  conti- 
nent, bids  fair  to  be  the  last  of  popery  also.  Even  Quito  is  little  more 
fanatical.  With  the  exception  of  Ayacucho,  I found  the  former  City 
of  the  Sun  the  only  place  in  Peru  where  the  priests  were  still  per- 
mitted to  advertise  their  spurious  wares  by  an  incessant  thumping 
and  hammering  of  all  the  discordant  noise-producers  of  whatever  tone 
or  caliber  or  lack  thereof,  in  her  church  towers,  at  any  hour  of 
day  or  night.  There  is  a law  against  “ unnecessary  ” ringing  of 
church-bells  in  Peru ; but  in  this  hotbed  of  fanaticism  the  prefect  does 
not  interpret  his  duties  too  severely.  With  a din  that  awoke  the 
echoes  of  the  distant  mountain-flanks  that  shut  her  in,  Cuzco  sallied 
frequently  forth  in  a long  religious  procession,  not  a single  white  man 
gracing  it,  except  the  priests.  These  latter  did  not  permit  the  most 
solemn  formalities  to  weigh  heavily  upon  them.  Even  within  the 
cathedral  itself  I have  seen  the  chief  padre,  carrying  the  host  or 
whatever  it  is,  and  marching  with  sanctimonious  tread  under  his 

439 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


embroidered  canopy,  wrinkle  up  his  lascivious  countenance  and  half- 
surreptitiously  make  unbelievably  scurrilous  jokes  with  the  priests  close 
around  him  about  the  attractive  girls  of  the  pious,  downcast  audience. 

Peru  has  long  been  one  of  the  most  intolerant  of  nations,  at  least 
theoretically.  Since  the  adoption  of  her  constitution  public  worship 
by  non-Catholics  has  been  forbidden,  its  fourth  article  reading : “ The 
nation  professes  the  Catholic  religion,  Apostolic  and  Roman ; the  state 
protects  it,  and  does  not  permit  the  public  exercise  of  any  other.”  An 
attempt  had  recently  been  made  to  amend  this  to  the  extent  of  striking 
out  the  last  clause.  There  has  long  been  violation  of  the  law.  Lima 
has  an  Episcopal  church  of  long  standing  and  considerable  congrega- 
tion, and  as  the  membership  is  largely  English  and  American,  Peru 
has  not  risked  a controversy  with  those  countries  by  enforcing  the 
constitution.  In  fact  the  strongest  and  chief  argument  of  the  sena- 
tors supporting  the  proposed  amendment  was  not  that  liberty  of  cult 
is  just,  but  that  “ the  law  is  not  being  enforced  anyway,  so  let ’s  change 
it.”  A very  few  grasped  the  fact  that  this  is  one  of  the  many  reforms 
needed  to  draw  to  Peru  the  immigration  indispensable  to  her  modern 
advancement.  The  fourteenth-century  arguments  of  the  hidebound 
clerical  senators  against  the  proposed  change  afforded  reading  com- 
pared to  which  the  efforts  of  tjie  world’s  chief  humorists  are  staid  and 
funereal. 

Great  excitement  broke  out  in  the  more  “ conservative  ” cities  of 
the  interior  when  the  news  came  up  from  Lima.  Headed  by  the 
archbishop,  ecclesiastics  of  every  grade  issued  orders  to  all  fielcs 
to  combat  “ por  cualquier  medio  — by  any  means  whatever,  this  vile 
attack  on  the  Holy  Mother  Church,  the  morality  of  the  family, 
and  the  honor  of  Peru  by  the  masones  and  atcistas  of  the  Senate.” 
From  all  the  altiplanicie  telegrams  poured  in,  calling  upon  the  sena- 
tors to  suppress  “ this  absurd  resolution  on  the  liberty  of  cults,  un- 
natural to  Peru  and  abhorred  by  all  the  faithful.”  Every  scurrilous 
little  Catholic  organ  — and  the  most  outspoken  “sage-bush”  journal 
of  our  Southwest  cannot  approach  these  in  vituperation  and  positive 
indecency  of  language  in  attacking  their  enemies  — frothed  with  raging 
editorials.  In  Cuzco  it  was  planned  to  parade  the  patron  saint  through 
the  streets,  ostensibly  as  a mere  protest.  A few  years  ago  the  bishop 
would  have  met  the  issue  by  calling  together  a few  hundred  of  the 
most  fanatical,  filling  them  with  concentrated  courage,  and  preaching 
a careful  sermon  that  would  really  have  been  an  order  to  sack  and 
kill  the  hated  “ liberals,”  though  with  a clever  wording  to  clear  his 

440 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  SUN 


own  skirts  of  the  matter.  Such  things  have  often  happened  in  Cuzco. 
This  time  a rumor  that  the  procession  was  to  be  merely  an  excuse 
for  the  priests  to  incite  their  followers  of  dull  complexion  and  under- 
standing to  riot  reached  the  students  of  the  university.  Though  all 
are  Catholics,  these  fiery  “ liberals  ” are  ardent  haters  of  priests ; 
only  a few  years  before  they  had  bodily  flung  the  “ clerical  ” faculty 
out  of  the  institution.  Now  they  secretly  gathered  revolvers  and 
planned  to  lay  in  wait  for  some  of  the  more  fanatical  priests  when 
the  procession  started.  Wind  of  this  reached  some  one  of  higher 
authority  and  intelligence,  the  news  was  wired  to  Lima,  and  in  the  nick 
of  time  orders  came  to  the  prefect  to  forbid  the  parade. 

An  amendment  to  the  constitution  in  Peru  requires  the  consent  of 
two  consecutive  congresses  and  the  signature  of  the  president  after 
each  passage.  A year  later  the  amendment  on  the  liberty  of  cult  was 
carried  and  became  law  amid  a scene  of  riot  in  the  senate,  during 
which  a fanatical  representative  snatched  the  bill  from  the  hands  of  a 
clerk  and  tore  it  to  bits. 

It  occurred  to  me  one  day  that  it  might  be  unpatriotic  to  leave 
Cuzco  without  calling  on  the  only  American  missionaries  — except  a 
lone  preacher  in  Bogota  — I had  so  far  heard  of  in  South  America. 
On  the  edge  of  town  I found  my#  way  at  length  into  a mud- 
walled  compound  of  some  fifteen  acres,  with  fat  green  alfalfa,  an 
exotic  windmill,  and  a two-story  mansion  surrounded  by  flower-plots. 
I had  paused  near  what  seemed  to  be  the  main  door,  and  stood  gazing 
admiringly  at  the  wall  that  shut  out  all  the  troubles  of  this  rude 
world,  when  a window  opened  and  a lean  man  of  forty,  his  mission 
plainly  imprinted  on  his  gaunt  features,  a finger  between  the  leaves 
of  a hymn-book,  put  out  his  head  and  murmured,  “ Buenas  tardes.” 

“ Is  this  Mr.  ? ” I asked  in  English. 

“ It  is.” 

“Well,  I just  happened  to  be  in  town  and  thought  I ’d.  . . . But 
no  doubt  you  are  very  busy.  . . .” 

“Yes,  I am  busy,”  came  the  reply,  in  a bona  fide  missionary  voice, 
“but  don’t  let  that  keep  you  from  coming  in  — if  you  want  to.” 
Naturally  I grasped  so  urgent  an  invitation  with  both  hands. 

“ Oh,  no,”  I protested,  “ I would  n’t  think  of  disturbing  you.  I ’ll 
stay  out  here  and  look  at  the  scenery.” 

“ Yes,  look  at  the  scenery,”  replied  the  urgent  gentleman,  as  he 
and  the  hymn-book  disappeared  behind  the  closed  window. 

Inside  arose  sounds  not  unlike  a Methodist  meeting,  and  I had 

441 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


begun  to  wander  stealthily  away  when  the  door  opened  and  the  mis- 
sionary’s more  cordial  better  half  informed  me  that  they  were  not 
“ holding  services.”  Reassured,  I entered  the  cozy  parlor.  Two 
women  and  a man  were  gathered  about  a diminutive  melodeon,  singing 
mournful  hymns.  Naturally,  at  sight  of  me  the  musicians  lost  their 
nerve,  and  the  cheerful  pastime  came  to  a standstill.  In  due  time  I 
discovered  that  the  youthful  organist  had  just  been  shipped  down  fresh 
and  untarnished  from  a Canadian  theological  seminary,  to  “ bring  the 
poor  Peruvians  to  Christ.”  His  qualifications  for  that  feat  were  that 
he  had  not,  up  to  his  arrival,  seen  a printed  page  of  Spanish,  had 
never  heard  of  Quichua  or  Pizarro,  and  though  he  did  remember 
the  name  Prescott,  he  “ did  n’t  know  he  had  written  about  foreign 
countries.”  I found  that  Peyrounel,  he  of  the  maidenly  hair,  chestful 
of  medals,  and  andarin  reputation,  had  lived  a month  at  the  mission 
the  year  before,  having  posed  as  a poor  persecuted  Huguenot  among 
bloodthirsty  Catholics.  He  had  filled  the  scanty  imaginations  of  the 
group  with  so  many  wild  tales  of  the  road  that  I could  not  refrain 
from  giving  my  own  inventiveness  vent,  and  at  the  end  of  a dozen 
bloodcurdling  episodes  the  fresh  young  product  of  the  seminary  re- 
marked in  a ladylike  voice,  “ That  must  have  been  quite  interesting.” 
Looked  at  from  that  point  of  view,  perhaps  he  was  right.  In  the 
early  days  of  their  mission  the  ladies  had  been  received  and  called 
on  socially  by  the  haughtiest  of  their  sex  in  Cuzco.  But  they  had 
soon  been  ostracized,  not  because  of  their  religion  — or,  from  the 
Cuzco  point  of  view,  lack  thereof  — but  because,  having  been  detected 
in  the  act  of  sweeping  out  their  own  parlor,  it  was  concluded  that 
they  were  cholas  in  their  own  country  and  not  fit  to  associate  with 
gente  decente. 

Unless  the  time  of  my  stay  there  was  exceptional,  suicide  is  a la 
mode  in  Cuzco.  Almost  on  the  day  of  my  arrival  one  bold  youth  of 
twenty-five  decided  to  die  because  Senorita  Fulana  scorned  his  atten- 
tions. He  wrote  a long  poem  explaining  to  the  disdainful  damsel, 
and  the  world  at  large,  why  he  was  leaving  life  so  early  — it  after- 
ward graced  the  contribution  page  of  one  of  the  local  journals  — and 
fired  four  revolver  shots.  One  grazed  his  chest,  a second  tore  a hole 
in  the  tail  of  his  frock-coat,  the  third  smashed  a lamp  on  the  mantel- 
piece, and  the  fourth  scared  the  family  cat  off  the  divan.  The  date 
of  the  wedding  was  soon  to  be  announced  when  I left  Cuzco.  Among 
the  host  of  disciples  of  this  heroic  and  enviable  deed  among  the  ex- 
citable juventud  of  Cuzco  were  several  youth  of  like  age,  who  at- 

442 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  SUN 


tempted  to  imitate  it  from  equally  absurd  motives.  All  carried  the  act 
to  a more  or  less  successful  conclusion,  except  one  who,  either  be- 
cause he  took  the  matter  too  seriously,  or  neglected  to  practice  before- 
hand, or  because  he  was  not  a native  cuzqueno,  or  had  been  reading 
Ibsen,  shot  himself  through  the  temple. 

The  subject  of  suicide  leads  us  naturally  to  the  cemetery.  That  of 
Cuzco  celebrated  a sort  of  “ Decoration  Day  ” during  my  stay.  Pla- 
cards announced  that  “ for  reasons  of  hygiene  ” the  alcalde  permitted 
no  one  but  actual  mourners  to  visit  it ; but  it  is  always  easy  to  find 
something  to  mourn  over  in  Peru.  An  endless  stream  of  humanity 
was  pouring  in  through  the  gate  by  which  I entered,  while  a score 
of  soldiers  on  guard  stood  drinking  chicha,  gambling,  and  making 
love.  As  in  all  Spanish  countries,  the  corpses  were  pigeon-holed  away, 
bricked  in,  and  marked  with  the  date  on  which  the  rent  would  fall 
due.  With  unlimited  space  about  the  city,  it  is  hard  to  understand 
why  the  dead  must  be  tucked  away  in  this  expensive  fashion,  except 
that  the  priests  refuse  to  sprinkle  with  holy  water  those  planted  else- 
where. At  the  gate  was  posted  a long  list  of  corpses  whose  rent  had 
run  out,  with  the  information  that  unless  it  was  paid  by  the  end 
of  the  month  the  contents  would  be  dumped  in  the  boneyard. 

A visit  to  any  Latin-American  cemetery  is  equal  to  sitting  through 
a well-played  comedy,  so  lacking  is  the  native  sense  of  propriety. 
Between  the  padlocked  iron  reja  and  the  bulkhead  of  each  grave  is  a 
narrow  space  which  it  is  a la  mode  to  fill  with  flowers.  But  as  flower- 
pots are  rare  and  expensive  in  Cuzco,  there  were  substituted  cans 
that  had  once  held  “ Horiman’s  Tea,”  or  “Smith’s  Mixed  Pickles,” 
many  with  gay  labels  adorned  with  the  portraits  of  scantily  clad  ac- 
tresses of  international  notoriety  still  upon  them.  Here  and  there  a 
family  with  a praiseworthy  sense  of  economy  had  caused  the  grave- 
head  to  be  marked  with  the  brass  name-plate  that  formerly  graced 
the  place  of  business  of  the  deceased;  others  had  “ Renewed  to  1918  ” 
crudely  scratched  in  the  cement,  bearing  witness  to  an  unusually 
tenacious  grief  on  the  part  of  the  survivors  — or  to  a well-drawn 
will.  Many  tombs  were  decorated  with  atrocious  photographs  of 
the  occupant;  others  had  verses  — no  doubt  the  author  would  call 
them  poems  — some  printed,  some  laboriously  hand-written,  pasted 
against  them  and  glassed  over,  like  the  photographs.  Here  and  there 
the  bulkhead  of  a well-to-do  member  of  society  was  entirely  covered 
by  a painting  depicting  the  untold  grief  of  those  left  behind, — in 
most  cases  a picture  of  the  coffin  of  the  deceased,  with  a string  of 

443 

t 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 

his  male  relatives  and  friends  on  one  side  and  the  female  mourners 
opposite,  all  dressed  in  their  most  correct  attire  — or  the  best  the 
painter  could  furnish  them  from  his  palette  — and  standing  exact  dis- 
tances apart  in  exactly  the  same  attitude  of  weeping  copiously  into 
a large  handkerchief  a dos  reales  in  any  shop.  Only,  as  the  painter, 
who  is  seldom  a direct  descendant  of  Murillo,  always  paints  in  the 
eyes  above  the  handkerchief,  the  impression  conveyed  is  that  the  en- 
tire group  is  suffering  from  a bad  cold,  that  the  funeral  was  inad- 
vertently put  off  too  long,  or  that  each  is  keeping  a worldly  eye  out 
for  any  suspicious  move  on  the  part  of  the  others. 

The  hospital  of  Cuzco  is  a part  of  the  same  structure  as  the  ceme- 
tery, with  a door  between  — a very  foresighted  and  convenient  ar- 
rangement for  such  a hospital.  The  building  is  roomy,  but  not  much 
else  can  be  said  for  it.  Indians  and  half-Indians,  male  and  female,  lie 
closely  packed  together  in  long  rows  of  aged  cots  along  ill-ventilated 
halls.  Hardy  as  seem  these  mountain  Indians,  once  they  are  subjected 
to  the  changed  life  of  the  barracks,  with  food,  clothing,  and  shoes 
to  which  they  are  not  accustomed,  they  succumb  with  surprising  ease 
to  a long  list  of  ailments.  From  kitchen  to  drug-shop,  from  nurses  to 
Indian  servants,  stalked  that  ubiquitous  uncleanliness  of  the  Andes. 
Several  idiots  and  insane  persons  were  confined  in  noisome  dens  un- 
worthy animal  occupancy.  In  a dismal,  half-underground  corner  a 
handsome,  powerfully  built  young  cholo  lay  on  a heap  of  rags  that  con- 
stituted absolutely  the  only  furnishings.  He  had  been  capellan  of 
the  cathedral,  and  whenever  a church-bell  rang  — which  was  most  of 
the  time  — he  sprang  up  from  the  uneven  earth  floor  and  began  to 
sing  Latin  hymns  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  shaking  and  gnawing  the 
heavy  wooden  bars  that  confined  him.  The  four  most  deadly  diseases 
of  Cuzco,  in  their  order,  are  typhoid,  dysentery,  tuberculosis,  and 
smallpox.  The  doctors,  physicians  of  the  town  who  drop  in  casu- 
ally and  hurriedly  each  morning,  are  paid  $27.50  a month.  La  Su- 
periora  draws  $10,  the  first  cook  and  the  grave-diggers  $5,  general 
male  servants  $3.50,  and  female  servants  $2  a month,  with  food  and 
a spot  to  lay  their  “ beds  ” on.  What  they  do  with  all  that  money 
I cannot  say.  The  hospital  cannot  afford  disinfectants,  and  when  a 
surgical  operation  is  to  be  performed  the  instruments  are  washed  in 
hot  water  — if  there  happens  to  be  fuel.  Patients  are  allowed  13 
cents  a day  for  food,  employees,  15,  and  the  woman  in  charge,  20. 

I visited  most  of  the  institutions  of  learning  in  Cuzco.  The  German 
head  of  the  Colegio,  or  high  school  for  boys,  wore  his  cap  and  overcoat 

444 


Indian  women  of  the  market-place,  wearing  the  “pancake  ” An  Indian  of  Cuzco,  speaking  only  Quichua 

hat  of  Cuzco 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  SUN 


even  in  the  class-rooms ; and  no  one  could  have  blamed  him  for  it  in 
this  dismal  rainy  season.  An  army  officer  had  been  detailed  as  gymna- 
sium instructor,  the  national  government  requiring  a certain  amount  of 
physical  training  of  all  students.  He  led  the  way  to  an  earth-floored 
building  in  the  rear,  where  the  pupils  took  turns  in  falling  over  the 
crude  apparatus  without  removing  even  their  coats.  To  appear  in 
shirt-sleeves,  even  in  a gymnasium,  would  be  an  inexcusable  breach 
of  etiquette  in  South  America.  School  ran  from  8 to  n,  and  from 
i to  5,  with  a ten-minute  recess  between  each  fifty-minute  class, 
that  must  be  spent  in  the  corredor  and  not  used  in  study.  Among 
the  students  was  one  Juan  Inca,  of  pure  Indian  type,  and  the  great 
majority  showed  more  or  less  aboriginal  blood.  The  chemistry  class, 
in  a laboratory  with  a floor  of  unlevelled,  trodden  earth,  had  a 
peon  to  arrange  the  experiments  for  the  professor,  who  performed 
most  of  them  in  person.  Few  of  the  students  could  be  coaxed  to 
soil  their  own  never-washed  hands  in  the  interests  of  science,  and 
those  who  broke  or  spilled  anything  were  sure  to  cry  out,  “ He,  mucha- 
cho!  ” — or  more  likely,  “ Yau,  huarma,”  since  in  their  excitement  their 
native  tongue  came  first  to  their  lips  — and  in  trotted  an  Indian  boy 
to  clean  up  the  mess.  The  newly  arrived  limeno  teacher,  who  had 
tried  to  get  them  to  do  their  own  experiments,  was  informed  that 
they  were  not  peons.  Yet  nine  tenths  of  them  would  have  been 
run  out  of  the  least  exacting  American  workshop  for  their  evidences 
of  avoiding  the  bath.  It' may  be  that  the  poor,  proud  fellows  had  no 
servants  at  home  to  take  it  for  them.  Upon  his  arrival  the  teacher  had 
established  the  rule  that,  as  his  class  began  at  i :io,  any  boy  not  in 
his  seat  by  i:ii  would  be  reported  tardy.  The  students  sent  a tele- 
gram of  protest  to  the  government  in  Lima,  and  word  came  back 
from  the  Minister  of  Education : 

“ Professor  , Colegio,  Cuzco : Do  not  put  too  much  stress  on 

small  and  unimportant  matters.” 

As  if  there  were  any  matter  on  which  the  Latin- American  is  more 
sadly  in  need  of  education ! 

The  class  miscalled  “ English  ” was  in  charge  of  a native  youth  who 
had  spent  a year  in  a well-known  but  not  particularly  famous  institu- 
tion in  our  Middle  West,  unfortunately  favored  by  most  Cuzco  youths 
permitted  to  top  off  their  education  in  the  United  States.  When  I 
entered  some  sixty  boys,  of  about  the  age  at  which  the  Latin-American 
begins  precociously  to  turn  rake,  were  floundering  through  some  “ I 
want  a dog”  sentences.  The  teacher’s  knowledge  of  his  subject  was 

445 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


such  as  might  be  gathered  in  the  dormitories  of  that  seat  of  jesuitical 
learning  above  mentioned,  but  was  not  exactly  what  he  might  have 
learned  had  he  been  permitted  to  mingle  with  the  profane  outside 
world.  It  would  not  have  been  so  bad  had  he  been  content  to  stick  to 
his  Cortina  grammar,  though  his  pronunciation  was  at  best  mirth- 
provoking.  But  like  so  many  half-learned  persons,  he  regarded  him- 
self as  the  source  of  all  wisdom  and  insisted  on  using  his  own  judg- 
ment, when  he  possessed  none.  He  was  dictating  dialogues  between 
two  American  boys,  and  forcing  his  students  to  learn  to  mismumble 
them;  just  such  expressions  as  we  have  all,  no  doubt,  heard  American 
boys  use  to  each  other  daily.  Here  are  a few  of  the  gems  I copied 
from  the  blackboard: 

“ Mys  cheek  it  is  pinkes  ” — which  had  not  even  the  doubtful  virtue 
of  being  true. 

“ By  Gosh,  Huzle  up!  ” The  jesuited  instructor  had  no  doubt  often 
heard  this  hasty,  unLatin-American  word  in  the  dormitories,  but  hav- 
ing never  chanced  to  see  it  in  print,  he  had  chosen  his  own  spelling,  with 
this  happy  result. 

“ We  now  shall  go  to  the  exam.”  The  longer  word  for  that  dis- 
tressing experience  he  seemed  never  to  have  heard. 

“ My  watch  it  goes  too  fast.” 

“At  your  service,  John,  thank  you.  What  are  the  news?”  Sev- 
eral students  made  the  error  of  using  a singular  verb  in  this  sentence, 
but  they  were  quickly  and  sarcastically  reminded  that  the  noun  news 
ends  in  an  s,  which  any  fool  knows  is  a sign  of  the  plural  in  English, 
as  in  Spanish. 

“ I shall  long  for  you  after  you  are  gone  away  ” ; the  blackboard  con- 
tinued, and  so  on,  always  with  a distinctly  home-made  pronunciation. 
The  traveler  can  scarcely  blame  himself  if  he  does  not  understand  his 
native  tongue  when  it  is  shouted  after  him  in  the  streets  of  Cuzco  by 
the  proud  students  of  the  Colegio. 

The  higher  institution  is  the  ancient  University  of  Cuzco,  founded 
nearly  a half-century  before  our  oldest,  and  occupying  the  great  stone 
cloisters  of  the  former  Jesuit  monastery.  A young  and  enthusiastic 
American  rector  has  done  much  to  give  it  new  impulse ; but  one  man 
single-handed  cannot  reform  the  Latin-American  character.  Its  160 
students  from  the  four  surrounding  departments  have  increased  both 
in  numbers  and  diligence  since  the  “ conservative  ” professors  were 
thrown  out,  but  their  point  of  view  is  still  not  exactly  that  of  our  own 
college  men.  Among  others  I attended  a class  on  “ Special  Literature.” 

446 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  SUN 

It  was  a third-year  course,  of  seven  students ; the  hour,  from  three  to 
four.  I arrived  at  3:15  and  found  the  professor,  a Ph.D.  (Cuzco) 
whose  wide  nostrils,  broad  face,  and  prominent  cheek  bones  proved  him 
chiefly  of  aboriginal  blood,  pacing  up  and  down  the  second-story  corre- 
dor  smoking  a cigarette.  At  3 :20  a white  youth  of  about  twenty-three, 
with  a mustache,  drifted  languidly  across  the  patio  swinging  his  cane. 
He  and  the  professor  bowed  low,  shook  hands,  exchanged  the  unavoid- 
able “ Buenas  tardes,  senor.  Como  esta  usted  ? Como  esta  la  fam- 
ilia?”  lifted  their  hats,  and  at  length  broke  the  clinch.  The  professor 
produced  from  his  pocket  a massive  key  and  opened  a cubical,  white- 
washed room,  having  installed  himself  in  which,  he  began  to  “ lecture  ” 
on  Calderon  de  la  Barca.  At  3 128  a half-Indian  student  stamped  into 
the  room  and  interrupted  the  proceedings  with  a loud  “ Buenas  tardes, 
senor,”  causing  the  professor  to  lose  the  thread  of  his  discourse  for  a 
minute  or  more.  When  the  interruption  had  subsided,  he  continued 
to  lecture,  pausing  now  and  then  to  look  at  his  outline  notes,  more 
often  to  inhale  the  smoke  of  the  cigarette  he  still  held  backward  be- 
tween his  fingers.  The  white  youth  soon  fell  asleep,  woke  as  his  head 
dropped,  spat  on  the  floor,  and  then  frankly  and  openly  laid  his  head 
back  against  the  wall  and  slept.  The  other  half  of  the  class  sat  with 
the  filmy,  half-closed  eyes  of  a man  who  is  dreaming  of  his  cholita 
of  not  too  unobliging  morals  in  some  hut  on  the  outskirts  of  town. 
It  would  have  been  ill-bred  of  the  professor,  and  galling  to  the  “ pride  ” 
of  his  class,  to  have  waked  them,  tie  finished  his  cigarette  and  droned 
unbrokenly  on.  At  3 146  another  haughty  half-Indian,  his  silver- 
headed cane  held  at  the  approved  Parisian  angle,  broke  in  upon  the 
lecture  with  a greeting,  which  the  professor  interrupted  his  remarks  to 
acknowledge.  At  3:50  he  took  advantage  of  the  awakening  caused 
by  the  new  arrival  to  begin  a quiz,  asking  the  white  student  some- 
thing about  the  subject  of  his  discourse.  The  usual  long  preliminary 
sparring  for  wind  in  the  form  of  “ Ah-oh-ah,  Senor  Don  Pedro  Calde- 
ron de  la  Garca,  one  of  the  most  important  authors  of  his  epoch  in 
Spain,”  and  so  through  a long  list  of  stock  phrases,  was  followed  by  a 
mumbling  of  some  vague  and  general  rubbish  he  could  easily  have 
framed  up  had  he  not  known  whether  Senor  Don  Pedro  was  man, 
woman,  or  priest.  When  he  had  said  nothing  for  about  two  minutes, 
one  of  the  others  was  given  the  floor  — no  doubt  the  professor 
apologized  later  for  being  obliged  to  call  upon  them  because  of  the 
presence  of  a distinguished  foreign  visitor  — and  launched  forth  in 
another  set  of  phrases.  Like  the  other,  he  did  not  know  the  title  of  any 

447 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


of  Calderon’s  dramas,  who  left  only  a hundred  or  two  to  choose  from, 
though  the  class  had  “ studied  ” several  of  those  works  during  the 
year’s  course.  After  each  question  the  professor  broke  in  upon  the 
meaningless  mumble  to  answer  his  query  himself,  and  as  he  named  the 
works  one  by  one,  the  student  cried  out  each  time  with  a great  display 
of  wisdom,  “ Ah,  si,  senor ! ” “ Es  verdad,  senor  ! ” as  he  would  have 

done  had  the  former  inadvertently  included  “ Quo  Vadis  ” or 
“ Evangeline.”  At  3 156  the  professor  carefully  called  the  roll  to  find 
out  how  many  of  the  seven  were  present,  entered  that  important  fact 
on  an  official  blank  to  be  left  with  the  rector  at  the  end  of  the  day,  and 
with  much  bowing  and  ceremonious  formality  the  class  took  leave  of 
themselves,  lighted  their  cigarettes,  tucked  their  canes  under  their 
arms,  and  faded  away. 

Having  long  wished  to  attend  a trial,  I carried  a note  of  introduction 
to  a judge  of  the  supreme  court  of  the  department  of  Cuzco. 

“Trial?  Certainly,  senor.  When  do  you  wish  to  see  one?” 

“ Any  time  there  happens  to  be  one.” 

“ Choose  for  yourself.” 

“Well,  shall  we  say  Wednesday,  at  one?” 

“ It  shall  be  done.  I shall  have  something  of  importance  arranged 
for  you.  How  would  this  new  burglary  case  do?  Or  the  recent  sui- 
cide? The  burglary?  Very  good,  then,  senor;  Wednesday  at  one. 
Su  servidor,  adios,  caballero.” 

Luckily  there  were  cases  pending,  thus  sparing  the  judge  the  trouble 
of  having  to  arrange  to  have  the  crime  committed. 

Jury  trial  is  unknown  in  Peru,  as  in  most,  if  not  all  Spanish-America. 
In  the  first  place,  if  the  uncle  of  the  accused  is  a compadre,  or  his 
nephew  a padrino  or  a nineteenth  cousin  of  the  father-in-law  of  the 
judge  or  anyone  else  high  in  authority,  the  chances  are  that  the  matter 
will  be  dropped.  Favored  with  none  of  these  advantages,  he  must  let 
the  law  take  its  rigorous,  snail-like  course.  The  trial  is  entirely  on 
paper,  back  in  the  recesses  of  some  dingy  office.  The  one  I entered 
at  the  hour  and  day  set  reminded  me  of  some  scene  from  the  pages  of 
Dickens.  I was  bowed  to  an  ancient  couch  at  one  side  of  the  dismal 
adobe  room,  the  secretary,  in  an  aged  overcoat  of  various  degrees  of 
fadedness  and  an  enormous  neck  muffler,  sitting  at  a medieval  table. 
My  friend,  the  “ Judge  of  the  First  Instance,”  in  sartorial  splendor,  sat 
at  another,  his  silk  hat  upside  down  before  him.  He  had  “ arranged  ” 
the  case  of  an  Italian  shopkeeper  who  had  been  robbed  the  Saturday 
before.  The  Italian,  being  summoned,  entered,  bowed,  remained 


An  Indian  required  to  pay  for  the  day  s mass  proudly  Youths  from  a village  near  Cuzco,  each  with 

clings  to  his  staff  of  office  Cud  jn  his  cheek 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  SUN 


standing,  gave  his  name,  age,  religion,  and  other  personal  details,  took 
the  oath.  Then  he  told  his  story  in  his  own  words  to  the  judge,  who 
asked  questions  but  made  no  attempt  at  cross-examination,  rather  help- 
ing the  witness  in  his  answers  when  he  stumbled  or  paused  for  want 
of  a Spanish  word.  Meanwhile  the  secretary  busied  himself  with  roll- 
ing and  consuming  innumerable  cigarettes.  When  he  had  finished  his 
tale,  the  Italian  was  shown  for  the  purpose  of  identification  some  arti- 
cles sent  over  from  the  Intendencia  as  taken  from  the  prisoner’s  pocket, 
after  which  they  still  remained  “ in  the  hands  of  justice.”  Then  the 
witness  sat  down  and  the  judge  himself  dictated  the  story  in  his  own 
words  to  the  secretary.  The  latter  armed  himself  with  a steel  pen, 
dipped  it  incessantly  into  a viceregal  ink-well,  and  peering  over  the  top 
of  his  glasses,  laboriously  wrote  in  a copy-book  hand  three  words  at 
a time,  repeating  them  aloud.  Shorthand  is  unknown  in  the  govern- 
ment offices  of  the  Andes.  It  would  be  too  much  to  ask  a political 
henchman  to  learn  stenography,  or  anything  else,  for  the  mere  purpose 
of  holding  a government  position ; typewriters  are  expensive ; more- 
over, typewritten  documents  are  not  legal  in  most  governmental  for- 
malities ; so  ultra-modern  a system  would  be  lacking  in  dignity  for 
such  solemn  purposes,  and  its  introduction  would  require  new  effort 
on  the  part  of  secretaries  whose  only  asset  is  the  medieval  art  of  pen- 
manship. The  endless  task  over  and  the  Italian  dismissed,  one  of  the 
prisoners,  a half-breed  boy  of  eighteen,  of  degenerate  type,  was  brought 
in  by  an  Indian  soldier  and  “ testified  ” in  the  same  manner  as  the  plain- 
tiff had  done.  He  was  not  required  to  take  the  oath,  but  was  warned 
to  tell  the  truth.  Again  it  was  his  own  story,  just  as  he  chose  to  tell 
it,  with  no  attempt  to  trip  him  up,  and  even  occasional  assistance. 
This  the  judge  redictated  in  his  own  more  cultured  language,  that  the 
archives  of  Cuzco  should  not  be  marred  by  the  undignified  speech  of 
the  masses ; and  the  “ trial  ’’  was  over.  A deaf-mute  wished  to  testify 
in  the  case,  but  as  there  are  no  schools  in  Peru  for  those  so  afflicted, 
there  was  no  one  who  could  understand  him. 

In  short,  a trial  in  Spanish-America  consists  of  nothing  but  the 
making  of  affidavits,  there  called  declaraciones.  These  are  seen  only 
by  the  judge,  not  even  the  prisoner’s  lawyer  being  permitted  — legally 
— access  to  them.  Later,  if  there  is  found  time  for  it,  comes  the 
snmario  in  which  the  judge  reads  in  his  private  study  the  various 
declarations  and  passes  judgment  and  sentence,  likewise  in  privacy, 
which  sentence  must  be  reviewed  by  the  Superior  Court  of  the  De- 
partment. The  curious  may  ask  where  the  lawyer  for  the  prisoner 

449 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


comes  in.  I was  informed  that  “ he  sees  the  prisoner  first  and  tells  him 
what  to  say  in  his  declaration.”  Thus  is  the  secret,  mysterious  “ jus- 
tice ” of  Latin- America,  “ a joke  at  so  much  a word,”  as  they  call  it  in 
Ecuador,  administered.  If  one  has  a man  arrested,  one  must  hire  a 
lawyer  to  find  out  what  happened  to  him. 

I next  went  with  the  judge,  in  his  gleaming  stovepipe  hat  and  sur- 
rounded by  his  suite  of  courtiers,  to  the  prison  on  the  banks  of  the 
noisome  Huatenay.  The  departmental  place  of  confinement  consisted 
of  an  old-fashioned  Spanish  dwelling  built  around  a large  courtyard, 
a dismal  patio  in  which  were  gathered  prisoners  from  all  parts  of 
Peru’s  largest  department,  from  white  men  of  the  capital  to  half-wild 
Indians  of  the  montana,  who  know  so  little  of  the  ways  of  government 
that  they  thought  they  were  being  held  by  their  tribal  enemies.  Every- 
one was  doing  whatever  he  chose,  with  a freedom  from  restraint  that 
recalled  the  debtors’  prisons  of  England  a century  ago.  As  in  most 
Latin-American  penal  institutions,  there  was  no  evidence  of  cruelty 
or  unkindness  to  inmates,  except  the  passive  cruelty  of  neglect,  most 
of  the  outward  forms  of  courtesy  being  kept  up  between  officials  and 
prisoners.  By  night  the  latter  slept  in  mud  cells  of  the  rambling  adobe 
building,  on  earth  floors  as  bare  as  those  of  an  Indian  hut  unless,  like 
the  traveler  in  the  Sierra,  they  brought  their  own  “ beds  ” with  them. 
No  food  worthy  the  name  was  furnished.  Outside  the  patio,  sepa- 
rated from  it  by  a massive  iron  wicket,  were  the  wives,  temporary  or 
otherwise,  of  the  prisoners,  who  had  brought  them  dinner  in  baskets, 
pots,  or  knotted  cloths.  This  custom  of  having  the  judge  visit  the 
place  of  confinement  is  not  without  its  advantages ; at  least,  it  gives  him 
a personal  knowledge  of  what  a sentence  means.  As  long  as  we  re- 
mained, a constant  line  of  prisoners  crowded  around  my  companion 
to  tell  their  grievances.  Those  who  wore  hats  carried  them  in  their 
hands,  but  the  cringing  Indians,  who  mumbled  their  complaints  in 
Quichua,  did  not  remove  their  earlap  “ skating  ” caps.  The  petitioners 
ranged  all  the  way  from  four  “ wildmen  ” from  the  hot-lands  to  the 
east,  to  a white  and  well-educated  youth  who  began : 

“ Your  Honpr  excuses  me,  but  I have  now  been  here  seven  months, 
and  if  you  could  be  pleased  to  arrange  that  they  have  my  trial  some 
day  before  long.  . . .” 

It  is  a short  but  rather  breathless  climb  in  this  altitude  from  the 
level  of  the  town  to  the  ancient  fortress  of  Sacsahuaman,  frowning 
down  upon  Cuzco  from  700  feet  above.  On  the  city  side  the  hill  hangs 
almost  precipitous,  the  town  piled  part  way  up  it ; but  a flanking  road 

450 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  SUN 


soon  brings  one  out  beside  the  most  massive  monument  of  aboriginal 
art  on  the  American  continent.  The  Cyclopean  ruins  are,  as  Garsilaso 
put  it,  “ rather  cliffs  than  walls,”  and  how  these  enormous  boulders,  of 
which  mathematicians  compute  the  largest  to  weigh  a little  matter  of 
360  tons,  were  set  in  position  on  this  lofty  headland  by  a race  that 
knew  neither  horses  nor  oxen  will  ever  remain  as  great  a mystery  as 
the  building  of  the  pyramids.  Only  one  thing  is  certain ; that  the 
builders  had  unlimited  labor  at  their  command  and  that  time  was  no 
object.  Prescott’s  “ so  finely  wrought  it  was  impossible  to  detect  the 
line  of  junction  between  the  rocks”  is  scarcely  true;  the  detection  is 
more  than  easy.  But  it  is  hard  to  believe  these  monster  walls  were 
constructed  by  the  ancestors  of  the  stolid  and  ambitionless  Indians  one 
sees  to-day  peddling  their  wares  in  the  market-place  of  Cuzco.  These 
downtrodden  descendants  take  the  amazing  works  of  their  forebears 
for  granted,  as  we  accept  the  constructions  of  nature,  and  never  dream 
of  attempting  to  imitate  them.  Indeed,  many  contend  that  they  were 
not  built,  but  grew  up  by  enchantment.  Nations,  like  individuals,  have 
enthusiasm  and  initiative  for  great  enterprises  in  their  youth,  and  are 
apt  to  settle  down  to  contentment  with  the  mediocre  in  middle  age, 
which  there  are  hints  that  the  race  we  roughly  call  Inca  had  reached  at 
the  time  of  the  Conquest.  The  massive  triple  walls  of  the  fortress 
were  built  in  zigzag  form,  with  salient  angles  from  which  the  defenders 
within  could  fall  upon  their  enemies,  making  it  sufficient  protection  to 
the  Imperial  city  without  the  necessity  of  surrounding  that  with  walls. 
Even  after  the  effete  modern  inhabitants  have  tumbled  all  the  stones 
they  could  move  down  into  the  city  to  build  their  own  temples  and 
dwellings  — the  efforts  of  Lilliputians  among  giants  — and  despite  the 
damage  wrought  by  ruthless  treasure-hunters,  the  main  portion  of  the 
great  fortress  of  Sacsahuaman  still  remains  intact,  to  bring  upon  the 
beholder  a rage  that  Pizarro  and  his  fellow-tramps  should  have  de- 
stroyed, like  bulls  in  a china-shop,  the  Empire  that  wrought  such  mar- 
vels, a wonder  at  what  might  have  been  had  the  Conquest  of  Peru  never 
taken  place. 

In  ancient  days,  whenever  the  son  of  an  Inca  put  a bent  pin  of 
champi  in  the  Imperial  chair  the  resulting  box  on  the  ear  must  have 
been  accompanied  with  a “ Here,  you  aslla  supay,  go  out  and  carve 
another  step  in  that  boulder ! ” There  is  no  other  rational  explanation 
of  the  mutilation  which  every  rock  and  ground-stone  for  a circuit  of 
many  miles  around  the  City  of  the  Sun  suffered  before  the  Conquest. 
Everywhere  huge,  house-large  rocks,  dull-gray  in  color,  are  fantasti- 

451 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


cally  carved  in  every  imaginable  form,  with  seats,  crannies,  grottoes, 
and  stairways,  as  if  for  mere  whim  or  amusement.  There  was  no 
“ scamping  ” of  work  in  those  days,  no  “ good  enough  ” to  the  straw 
bosses  of  the  Incas,  only  one  grade, — the  perfect.  The  hardest  rock 
is  cut  with  exquisite  care  and  finish,  the  angles  perfectly  sharp,  the 
flat  parts  smooth  as  if  cast  in  a mould.  To  the  modern  inhabitants 
every  such  carved  seat  is  a “ throne  of  the  Incas  ” — as  if  the  Inca  had 
nothing  to  do  but  sit  around  admiring  the  widespread  view  from  those 
aerial  points  of  vantage  of  which  his  dynasty  was  so  fond.  The 
imagination  likes  to  picture  him  watching  athletic  games  on  the  little 
plain  before  Sacsahuaman,  and  chuckling  behind  his  Imperial  mask 
at  the  antics  of  children  sliding  down  the  Rodadero,  or  toboggan-stone, 
as  do  still  those  youths  of  Cuzco  who  are  low  enough  in  caste  not  to 
jeopardize  their  dignity  by  such  antics. 

Over  behind  the  ruins  and  carved  rocks  I found  all  the  provincial 
“ authorities  ” gathered  one  Sunday  to  uncover  another  of  the  many 
immense  boulders  that  had  lain  for  centuries  disguised  as  a mound  of 
earth.  The  gobernadores  and  tenientes,  in  more  or  less  “ European  ” 
garb,  confined  their  labor  to  bossing ; the  actual  work  was  done  by  the 
alguaciles,  jealously  clinging  to  their  silver-mounted  staffs  of  office, 
even  as  they  toiled.  The  digging  brought  to  light  not  only  another 
huge,  fantastically  carved  ground-rock,  but  a hint  of  how  Sacsahuaman 
might  have  been  built.  The  Incas  had  but  to  call  in  men  from  all  the 
district  roundabout,  under  their  commanders  of  tens,  and  if  a thousand 
did  not  suffice  to  move  a stone,  nothing  was  easier  than  to  summon  two, 
or  five,  or  ten  thousand.  Thus  the  government  of  to-day  has  continued 
many  of  the  ancient  ways,  as  the  Church  has  grafted  its  own  forms  on 
the  religion  of  the  Children  of  the  Sun. 

But  more  striking  even  than  prehistoric  ruins  is  the  view  of  Cuzco 
from  the  foot  of  the  inevitable  wooden  cross  at  the  summit  of  Sacsa- 
huaman. So  steep  is  the  hill  on  this  side,  and  so  close  to  the  town, 
that  it  seems  almost  to  bulge  out  over  it,  and  all  the  Imperial  city  lies 
spread  out  beneath,  as  from  an  aeroplane,  its  every  plaza  and  patio  in 
full  view  to  its  very  depths,  the  activities  of  every  family  as  plainly 
visible  as  if  some  magic  wand  had  lifted  away  the  concealing  roofs. 
Here  and  there,  even  on  a Sunday,  an  Indian  in  crude-colored  garments 
and  his  pancake  hat  crawls  along  the  fortress  hill  behind  his  oxen  and 
wooden  plow,  with  the  Imperial  city  of  his  forefathers  as  a background. 
Beyond,  the  greenish  valley  of  the  Huatenay  stretches  away  southward 
between  velvety-brown,  wrinkled  hills,  the  four  royal  highways  diverg- 

452 


Our  party  setting  out  for  Machu  Picchu  across  the  high  plains  about  Cuzco 


Ollantaytambo,  the  end  of  the  first  day's  journey,  in  the  valley  of  the  Urubamba.  In  the 
upper  left-hand  corner  is  seen  the  bright-yellow  “school”  of  Inca  days 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  SUN 


ing  from  the  main  plaza  as  principal  streets  and  sallying  forth  to  the 
“ Four  Corners  of  the  Earth  ” as  directly  as  the  configurations  of  the 
Andes  permit.  But  always  the  eye  drifts  back  to  the  city  below,  spread 
out  in  every  slightest  detail.  Under  the  Incas  it  may  have  been 
“ bright  and  shining  with  gold  and  gay  with  color,  its  long  and  narrow 
streets,  crossing  each  other  at  right  angles  with  perfect  regularity, 
adorned  with  beautiful  palaces  and  temples  ” ; even  to-day,  under  the 
rays  of  the  unclouded  Andean  sun,  it  is  a scene  no  mere  words  can 
bring  to  him  who  has  not  looked  down  upon  it  in  person.  The  soft 
red  of  its  aged  tile  roofs  and  the  rich  brown  of  its  bulking  churches 
leaves  no  need  for  golden  adornment.  The  Sunday-morning  noises 
come  up  distinctly, — school-boys  playing  in  the  patios  of  monaste'ries, 
fighting-cocks  haughtily  challenging  the  world  to  combat,  a weary  bell 
booming  a belated  summons,  the  half-barbarous,  half-inspiring  screech 
of  trumpets  rising  as  a regiment  of  the  garrison  that  keeps  Cuzco  loyal 
to  “ those  degenerate  negroes  of  Lima  ” sets  out  on  a march ; yet  all 
blending  together  into  a sort  of  pagan  music  that  carries  the  imagina- 
tion bodily  back  to  the  pre-Conquest  days  of  long  ago. 


453 


CHAPTER  XVII 


A FORGOTTEN  CITY  OF  THE  ANDES 

f ■ AHE  traveler  of  to-day  is  seldom  granted  the  pleasure  of  visit- 
ing really  new  territory.  How  much  more  rarely  comes  the 

JL  joy  of  being  one  of  the  first  of  modern  men  to  tread  the 
streets  of  an  entire  city,  unrivaled  in  location  and  unknown  to  his- 
tory ! Such,  however,  is  the  privilege  of  those  who  come  up  to  Cuzco 
in  these  days  with  the  time  and  disregard  for  roughing  it  necessary  to 
visit  Machu  Picchu. 

The  mysterious,  white-granite  city  of  the  Incas  or  their  predecessors 
now  called  by  that  name  was  unknown  to  civilized  man  and  the  world 
until  Professor  Hiram  Bingham  of  Yale  visited  the  site  in  1911,  to 
come  back  a year  later  in  charge  of  the  expedition  that  cleared  it  of 
the  rampant  jungle  growth  and  the  oblivion  of  ages.  Here  was  un- 
covered what  are  perhaps  the  most  splendid  pre-Columbian  ruins  in 
the  Western  Hemisphere,  most  splendid  because,  in  addition  to  being 
the  most  important  — except  Cuzco  itself  — discovered  since  the  Con- 
quest, they  have  not  been  wrecked  by  treasure-hunters  or  confused 
with  Spanish  building.  The  account  of  the  find  had  overtaken  me 
in  Lima,  and  all  the  four-hundred-mile  tramp  across  Peru  to  the  an- 
cient City  of  the  Sun  had  been  gladdened  by  the  anticipation  of  visiting 
a spot  that  not  only  promised  extraordinary  interest  in  itself,  but  had 
the  added  attraction  of  being  difficult  of  access. 

I had  planned  to  travel  to  Machu  Picchu  alone  and  afoot.  In  Cuzco, 

however,  it  was  my  good  fortune  to  run  across  Professor  R of  our 

Middle  West,  and  to  change  in  consequence  my  customary  mode  of 
transportation.  We  called  on  the  prefect  together.  His  mind  wan- 
dered, as  do  those  of  all  his  class,  to  his  cholita  or  whatever  it  is  that 
sends  the  Andean  official  wool-gathering,  even  while  he  puzzled  to  ac- 
count for  the  joint  appearance  of  a famous  sociologist  recommended 
by  the  President  of  the  Republic  and  a tramp  who  had  arrived  on  foot. 
His  secretary  at  length  delivered  an  impressive  document  informing 
whomever  it  might  concern  that  we  were  going  to  “ Mansupisco.” 

454 


A FORGOTTEN  CITY  OF  THE  ANDES 


When  I protested,  the  prefect  assured  the  professor  it  was  often 
spelled  that  way.  I insisted,  whereupon  he  and  the  secretary  sneaked 
off  and  found  a geography,  and  this  time  got  all  right  except  the  date. 
That  was  a week  behind  time,  which  was  perhaps  in  keeping  with  the 
local  color. 

Martinelli  of  the  cinema,  who  volunteered  to  accompany  us,  owned 
a coast  horse  and  a wise  gray  macho,  leaving  the  prefect  to  obey  his 
telegraphic  orders  only  to  the  extent  of  furnishing  another  animal 
capable  of  keeping  the  professor’s  feet  off  the  ground.  This  was  not 
so  easy  as  it  may  sound,  for  the  professor  had  finally  halted  in  his 
physical  rise  in  the  world  about  midway  between  the  six  and  seven 
foot  mark,  and  the  horses  of  the  Andes  are  rarely  spoken  of  without 
tacking  on  the  Spanish  diminutive,  ito. 

Having  already  spent  more  than  a year  among  the  people  of  the 
Andes,  I was  by  no  means  so  surprised  as  the  professor  when,  upon 
descending  in  full  road  regalia  to  the  cobbled  street  at  six,  we  found 
no  sign  of  the  horse  the  prefect  had  solemnly  promised  to  have  stand- 
ing saddled  at  our  hotel  door  at  five.  Some  things  come  to  him  who 
waits  — long  enough  — even  in  Peru,  however,  and  by  the  time  the 
third  round  of  anecdotes  was  ended,  there  broke  the  street  vista  and 
drifted  down  upon  us  a Peruvian  soldier  in  full  accoutrements,  bestrid- 
ing a sorrowful  little  black  mule  and  leading  as  gaunt  and  decrepit  a 
chusco  as  even  I had  ever  seen  among  those  shaggy  ponies  that  mas- 
querade under  the  name  of  horse  throughout  the  Andes.  The  soldier 
dismounted  and  saluted.  The  professor  stood  gazing  abstractedly 
down  upon  the  animal,  no  doubt  drawing  a mental  picture  of  himself 
in  the  role  of  Don  Quixote,  with  the  added  touch  of  dragging  his  toes 
on  the  ground  over  150  miles  of  Andean  trails.  With  a snort,  and 
a speed  that  proved  his  four  years  in  the  United  States  had  not  been 
entirely  misspent,  Martinelli  disappeared  in  the  direction  of  the  prefec- 
tura.  Before  another  hour  had  drifted  into  the  past  he  reappeared, 
followed  by  a second  soldier  leading  a real  horse  from  the  corral  of 
the  officers  of  the  garrison. 

“ How  did  you  manage  it  ? ” I asked,  in  admiration. 

“ I raised  hell,”  said  Martinelli,  tightening  the  girth  of  his  own 
animal. 

“ What  Peru  most  needs,”  mused  the  professor,  who  has  the  happy 
faculty  of  now  and  then  giving  his  professional  vocabulary  a fur- 
lough, “ is  about  ten  thousand  of  you  young  fellows  educated  abroad 
to  come  home  here  and  raise  hell.” 

455 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


Plainly  the  professor  was  already  beginning  to  get  a real  mental 
grasp  on  South  America. 

We  transferred  the  government  saddle  to  the  real  horse  and  by 
eight  were  clattering  away  over  the  cobblestones  of  the  City  of  the 
Incas,  the  soldier  on  his  sorrowful  black  mule  bringing  up  a funereal 
rear.  This  was  doing  very  well  indeed.  To  get  off  on  the  same  day 
planned,  at  any  hour  whatever,  is  no  slight  feat  in  the  Andes.  Such 
of  Cuzco  as  had  already  lifted  its  frowsy  head  from  the  pillow  gazed 
hazy-eyed  out  upon  us  as  we  wound  and  clashed  our  stony  way  up 
out  of  the  city  by  that  breakneck  stairway  down  which  I had  de- 
scended from  my  trans-Peruvian  journey.  The  morning  sunlight  fell 
weirdly  upon  the  City  of  the  Sun  below  when  we  reached  the  notch 
in  the  hills  where  all  Indians  pause  before  the  last  view  of  the  sacred 
capital  of  their  ancestors  to  murmur,  with  bared  heads,  “ O Cuzco, 
Great  City,  I bid  thee  adieu ! ” 

As  we  jogged  on  in  the  sunny  October  morning  across  the  bare,  col- 
orful, cool  hills  of  Cuzco  toward  the  lofty  pampa  beyond,  I turned  to 
ask  the  soldier  behind : 

“ Como  te  llamas  ? ” 

“Tomas,”  he  replied,  with  a military  salute,  “Tomas  Cobino,  sar- 
gento  de  la  Gendarmeria  Nacional.” 

“ Can  you  be  that  same  Tomas  who  was  with  the  Americans  in 
Machu  Picchu  ? ” 

“ Si,  senor,  I attended  los  yanquis  three  months  in  their  treasure- 
hunts.” 

The  means  has  not  yet  been  found  of  convincing  the  people  of  the 
Sierra  that  digging  about  old  ruins  can  have  any  motive  other  than  that 
of  seeking  the  traditional  treasures  of  the  Incas. 

A few  miles  out,  the  road  was  in  the  throes  of  “ repair  ” by  a large 
gang  of  Indians,  under  command  of  the  alguaciles  of  the  neighboring 
hamlets,  who  stood  haughtily  by,  firmly  grasping  their  silver-mounted 
staffs  of  office.  They  looked  not  at  all  like  worldlings,  but  like  men 
from  Mars  commanded  by  sixteenth-century  pirates.  At  first  we  met 
many  mule-trains,  Cuzco-bound,  the  leaders  wearing  about  their  necks 
long  jangling  bells  with  wooden  clappers.  The  Cuzco  Indian,  of  the 
color  of  old  brass,  with  his  bare  legs,  scanty  knee-breeches,  and  flat, 
black-and-red  montera,  sneaked  noiselessly  by  with  the  air  of  a whipped 
cur,  fawningly  removing  his  pancake  hat  and  murmuring  an  abject 
“ Amripusma.”  The  greeting  sounded  like  Quichua,  but  is  merely 
what  becomes  of  the  Spanish  “ Ave  Maria  Purisima  ” in  the  mouth  of 

456 


A FORGOTTEN  CITY  OF  THE  ANDES 


the  aboriginal.  The  professor  showed  great  astonishment  to  find  even 
the  women  raising  their  hats  in  salutation,  but  Martinelli  and  I had  long 
since  grown  to  expect  it.  In  his  democracy  he  touched  his  own  hat 
and  repeated  “ Buenos  dias,  senor  ” to  each  Indian’s  greeting,  instead 
of  acknowledging  it  with  a surly  grunt  or  haughty  silence,  in  the  Pe- 
ruvian fashion.  He  would  have  been  astonished  to  know  how  the 
startled  native  cudgeled  his  primitive  brain  all  the  way  home,  there 
to  roll  about  his  mud  hut  telling  his  fellows  how  he  had  met  a “ kara  ” 
so  roaring  drunk  that  he  called  him  “ senor,”  as  if  he  were  a white 
man. 

Within  an  hour  the  trail  swung  to  the  right.  Away  over  our  left 
shoulders  lay  that  splendid  Plain  of  Anta,  rich  with  cattle  and  his- 
torical memories  of  the  Conquistadores.  The  distant  bleat  of  sheep 
now  and  then  drew  our  eyes  to  a bedraggled  little  Indian  shepherd- 
ess, armed  with  a sling,  and  spinning  incessantly,  automatically,  the 
crude  native  yarn  on  her  cruder  spindle  of  a quinoa-stalk  run  through 
a potato  as  whirlbob,  as  she  edged  cautiously  away.  These  lonely 
guardians  of  the  flocks  are  not  infrequently  pursued  with  impunity  by 
native  travelers,  and  are  even  known  to  resort  to  mechanical  means  to 
frustrate  attack.  In  this  treeless  region  the  doors  of  the  Indians’  dis- 
mal mud  hovels  were  of  stiff,  sun-dried,  hairy  cowhides.  As  the  bare 
world  rose  still  higher,  even  these  miserable  dwellings  died  out,  and 
only  the  bleak,  brown  uplands  of  the  Andes  spread  about  us  on  every 
hand. 

In  mid-morning  we  topped  a great  bare  puna , from  the  chilly  sum- 
mit of  which  the  white-crested  Central  Cordillera  stretched  like  some 
mighty  wall  across  the  entire  horizon,  the  snow-peaks  and  glaciers 
thrusting  their  hoary  heads  through  the  less-white  banks  of  clouds. 
Then  a vast  Andean  valley,  like  those  that  had  long  since  grown  so 
familiar  to  me,  yet  were  always  beautiful,  opened  out  before  us,  in  its 
lap  the  town  of  Maras,  tinted  the  pale  red  of  its  aged  tile  roofs. 
The  great  rolling,  red-brown  basin  was  surrounded  by  age-wrinkled 
mountainsides  speckled  with  little  shadowed  valleys  and  perpendicular 
chacras,  or  tiny  Indian  farms,  hung  on  their  flanks  like  small  paintings 
on  slightly  inclined  walls.  We  halted  for  dinner  with  the  gobernador, 
and  for  chala,  as  the  Incas  called  dried  cornstalks  with  half-matured 
ears ; and  to  admire  the  far-reaching  view  and  the  cut-stone  doorways 
of  mud  houses  sculptured  with  bastard  Inca-Christian  designs. 

We  went  on  again  over  the  high,  brown,  barren  world,  the  wind- 
swept summit  of  each  succeeding  land-wave  bringing  again  above  the 

457 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


horizon  the  great  snow-crested  wall  that  each  time  seemed  near,  yet  all 
the  jogging  day  appeared  not  a yard  nearer.  At  three  we  came  sud- 
denly to  a vast  split  in  the  earth,  into  which  we  began  to  go  down 
and  ever  down  by  acute  zigzags  and  stony  cuestas  that  grew  so  steep 
we  had  to  dismount  and  lead  our  animals.  Before  and  below  us 
spread  the  magnificent  canon  of  the  Urubamba,  that  river  of  many 
names  which,  rising  near  Titicaca,  at  length  adds  its  bit  to  the  giant 
Amazon.  Spring  plowing  was  in  progress  on  the  valley  floor,  walled 
by  mountains  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach  in  either  direction.  Over 
this  rampart  the  sun  still  peered  when  we  reached  the  level  of  the 
river  at  last  and,  picking  up  the  road  from  up  the  valley,  jogged  down 
along  it. 

Stone-faced  terraces  of  the  Incas  were  frequent;  here  and  there  far 
up  the  sheer  enclosing  bluffs  were  the  ruins  of  pre-Conquest  watch- 
towers  of  rough  stone.  At  times  the  road  was  itself  one  of  these 
ancient  terraces,  the  retaining  wall  of  the  one  above  rubbing  our  left 
elbows,  a sheer  drop  of  some  eight  feet  to  that  below  close  on  our 
right.  In  places  the  river  itself  was  faced  and  narrowed  by  massive 
cut-stones.  The  exotic  iron  bridge,  replacing  to-day  the  former  one  of 
braided  withes,  by  which  we  crossed  to  Ollantaytambo  had  a central 
pier  of  those  enormous  boulders  which  the  bygone  race  seemed  to  toss 
about  at  will. 

We  rode  to  the  bare,  mud-hutted  plaza  past  splendid  wrought-stone 
walls  of  what  had  once  been  palaces  little  inferior  to  those  of  Cuzco. 
The  local  “ authority  ” bowed  low  over  our  “ passport  ” and  turned 
the  gobernacion  over  to  us  for  the  night.  This  was  an  all  but  window- 
less second-story  room  opening  on  the  unfurnished  plaza,  with  a 
springy  earth  floor  laid  on  poles.  Into  it  shrinking  alguaciles  lugged 
our  baggage  and  a rheumatic  table  and  bench,  without  once  releasing 
their  staffs  of  office.  Tomas,  our  soldier-servant,  had  found  the 
bringing  up  of  the  rear  a heavy  task,  and  he  and  his  worn  and  sorrow- 
ful black  mule  arrived  with  the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun.  Mean- 
while, the  egg  supply  of  Ollantaytambo  having  been  greatly  reduced, 
we  spread  our  saddle-blankets  and  lay  down  with  heads  to  the 
walls ; for  the  slope  of  the  floor  was  such  that  to  stretch  along  them 
would  have  been  to  fetch  up  before  morning  in  a tangled  confusion  in 
the  middle  of  the  room. 

Like  Limatambo,  near  which  Chusquito  had  ended  our  joint  career, 
Ollantaytambo  was  one  of  the  four  fortresses  and  rest-houses,  each 
about  twelve  leagues  out  on  the  Inca  highways  that  sallied  forth  from 

458 


A FORGOTTEN  CITY  OF  THE  ANDES 


Cuzco  to  the  “ Four  Corners  of  the  Earth.”  Its  ruins,  among  the 
most  striking  in  South  America,  consist  of  fairly  recent  Inca  struc- 
tures alternating  with  remains  of  unknown  antiquity.  Unquestioned 
history,  however,  has  little  to  say  of  the  great  wrought-stone  fortress 
in  the  best  “ Inca  style  ” on  the  hill  overlooking  the  town ; the  several 
splendid  defensive  walls,  on  the  general  plan  of  Sacsahuaman,  being 
topped  off  with  any  chips  of  stone  at  hand,  as  if  at  the  sudden  appear- 
ance of  besiegers.  This  might  suggest  that  a later  race  of  less  energy 
had  taken  advantage  of  the  works  of  more  hardy  ancestors,  but  for 
the  mystery  of  the  “ Tired  Stones  ” of  porphyry,  the  largest  25  by  10 
by  5 feet  in  dimensions,  which  lie  abandoned  all  the  way  from  the 
town  to  the  quarry  far  up  near  the  top  of  the  mountain  wall  across 
the  river,  down  the  face  of  which  they  were  tobogganed. 

Ollantaytambo  unquestionably  was  once  densely  populated.  On  all 
sides  it  is  surrounded  by  remarkable  terraces,  some  still  under  half- 
hearted cultivation,  long  and  flat,  with  barely  a foot  difference  in  each 
succeeding  level,  on  the  valley  floor;  narrow  and  high-walled  on  the 
swift  mountainsides  and  for  miles  up  a side  gully  to  the  east.  The 
inhabitants  of  to-day,  unemotional,  bath-fearing,  Quichua-speaking 
Indians,  as  in  all  this  region,  still  occupy  much  of  the  old  “ Inca  ’’ 
town,  with  its  shoulder-wide  streets  between  massive  stone  walls  that 
grow  more  and  more  careless  in  construction  in  direct  ratio  to  their 
distance  from  the  center.  Whole  blocks  of  these  ancient  houses  are 
still  intact,  except  for  the  roofs,  a single  doorway  giving  entrance  to 
each  block.  Strangely  enough,  this  was  the  same  unbroken  exterior 
wall  around  an  interior  court  common  to  the  Moor  and  Spaniard.  Had 
it  fallen  to  men  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race  to  overthrow  the  empire  of 
the  Incas,  they  would  have  been  vastly  more  struck  by  the  aboriginal 
architecture  than  were  the  Conquistadores. 

Enormous  cut-stones  are  here  and  there  incorporated  with  the  build- 
ings of  to-day ; as  in  Cuzco,  many  an  adobe  second-story  has  been 
superimposed  on  the  walls  of  what  must  have  been  at  least  a king’s 
palace.  Far  up  the  sheer  bluff  behind  the  ancient  town  hangs  the 
“ school,”  bright  yellow  in  color,  constructed,  according  to  the  alcalde, 
of  some  concrete-like  substance  that  has  not  disintegrated  under  the 
rain  and  sunshine  of  centuries.  From  below  it  looks  more  like  a 
five-story  building  than  the  five  terraces  piled  one  above  the  other  on 
the  inaccessible  face  of  the  mountain,  which  it  really  is.  If,  as  is 
commonly  accepted,  it  was  a school  for  children  of  the  nobles  — for 
the  Incas,  like  the  priests  who  have  inherited  their  power,  did  not 

459 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


believe  in  education  for  the  common  people  — a daily  climb  to  and 
descent  from  it  eliminated  any  necessity  for  a course  in  physical 
training.  Whether  the  “ school  ” was  built  by  another  race,  or 
whether  those  whose  massive  monuments  cover  the  site  below  could 
not  carry  their  blocks  of  stone  so  far  aloft,  is  but  another  of  those 
baffling  mysteries  that  hover  forever  over  the  ruins  of  the  Andes. 
About  the  town  are  several  “ baths  ” of  carved  stone,  which  may 
rather  have  been  reservoirs  for  drinking  water  — I for  one  will  not 
believe  that  a bath  was  ever  a part  of  the  equipment  of  the  Andean 
Indian.  As  everywhere  within  a radius  of  many  miles  about  Cuzco, 
every  possible  boulder,  ground-stone,  or  rock-ledge  is  carved  into 
seats,  steps,  dungeon-like  grottoes,  every  fantastic  shape  a tyrannic 
mind  could  have  conceived,  a score  of  grotesque  forms  that  can  only 
be  accounted  for  as  the  whims  of  some  despot.  The  ancient  Peruvian 
emperors  seem  to  have  believed,  as  firmly  as  the  windjammer’s 
“ bo’s’n  ” who  sets  his  crew  to  picking  oakum,  in  the  relationship  be- 
tween idle  hands  and  mischief,  and  to  have  assigned  the  otherwise  un- 
engaged the  task  of  carving  the  nearest  boulder. 

With  the  remaining  half  of  the  seventy-five  miles  from  Cuzco  to 
Mandorpampa  before  us,  we  were  away  betimes  in  the  soft,  early- 
summer  morning,  tinged  with  coolness  from  off  the  half-hidden  snow- 
clads  above,  as  we  rode  northeastward  into  the  sunrise  down  the  right 
bank  of  the  Urubamba.  Gradually,  as  the  morning  warmed,  the  blue- 
white  glaciers  of  Piri  and  its  neighbors  shook  off  their  night  wraps  of 
clouds,  until  they  stood  forth  above  us  in  all  their  massive  grandeur. 
The  valley  narrowed  to  a canon,  and  that  to  a gorge,  with  repulsive, 
bare  mountain  walls  standing  precipitously  more  than  a thousand  feet 
into  the  sky  on  either  hand.  Here  and  there  the  rock-broiling  river 
was  hurried  between  retaining  walls  laboriously  constructed  by  the  by- 
gone race.  Often  these  alone  held  us  up,  as  the  precipice  shouldered  us 
to  the  sheer  edge  of  the  stream ; sometimes,  indeed,  the  road  was 
hewn  out  of  the  perpendicular  mountainside  and  carried  tremulously 
across  from  one  solid  foothold  to  another  on  patched-up  props  of 
stone.  Straight  above  us  on  virtually  unassailable  crags  were  the  ruins 
of  walls,  and  perhaps  small  forts,  the  holders  of  which  might  have 
showered  down  boulders  squarely  upon  us  — had  they  not  centuries 
since  been  laid  away  in  their  bottle-shaped  graves,  hugging  their  osse- 
ous knees.  On  the  inaccessible  left  bank  were  scores  of  ancient  ter- 
races. For  miles  every  available  inch  of  the  mountainside  had  once 
been  prepared  for  cultivation.  Small,  indeed,  must  have  been  the 

460 


Spring  plowing  in  the  Urubamba  Valley.  The  woman  in  front  is  scattering  manure,  the  man  behind  dropping  seed  potatoes  and  covering 

them  by  a flip  of  the  bare  foot 


A FORGOTTEN  CITY  OF  THE  ANDES 


laborer’s  wage,  a daily  handful  of  beans  and  corn,  in  this  once  densely 
populated  canon,  where  the  struggle  for  existence  forced  the  con- 
struction of  an  eight-foot  wall  of  stone  to  uphold  a four-foot  shelf  of 
cultivation. 

Hourly  it  grew  more  perfect  summer,  and  ever  more  delightful 
views  and  magnificent  vistas  broke  unexpectedly  upon  us,  contrast- 
ing strangely  with  the  bleak,  wind-swept  puna  of  the  day  before.  The 
old  trail  from  Cuzco  to  the  tropical  montana  climbed  sulkily  away  up 
a side  quebrada  toward  the  dreary  uplands.  This  new  road  to  Santa 
Ana  had  only  recently  made  accessible  for  the  first  time  in  modern 
days  this  marvelous  canon  of  the  Urubamba.  It  was  nowhere  steep. 
We  went  down  by  frequent  little  stony  descents,  with  no  corresponding 
rises,  half-aware  of  now  and  then  standing  in  our  stirrups  as  our 
animals  dropped  from  under  us,  the  conscious  self  gazing  at  the  en- 
thralling scene  below  and  above.  Frequent  pack-trains  passed  us, 
bound  upward  out  of  the  hot-lands  with  cargoes  of  fiery  native  aguar- 
diente, in  leather  skins  inside  cloth-wrapped  wooden  frames,  or  long 
cylindrical  packages  of  coca-leaves  such  as  the  drivers  were  chewing. 
Often  the  meetings  were  at  points  where  only  extreme  vigilance  saved 
us  from  being  pushed  over  the  precipice ; for,  though  our  right  of  way 
gave  us  the  mountainside,  the  pack-animals,  shy  of  the  roaring  stream 
below,  sought  to  crowd  in  between  us  and  the  wall,  in  spite  of  the 
threatening  cries  and  whistling  of  their  arrieros. 

At  eleven  we  stopped  for  “ breakfast.”  By  the  time  we  were  in  the 
saddle  again  the  vegetation  began  to  grow  frankly  tropical.  The  ap- 
proach to  the  vast  Amazonian  lowlands  was  heralded  by  trees,  then 
by  whole  forests  climbing  the  lower  flanks  of  the  hills  that  cut  in 
alternately  from  either  side;  then  they  began  clothing  the  lower  ridges 
and  the  flanks  of  the  mountains  themselves,  in  delightful  contrast  to  the 
dreary  treelessness  of  the  upper  heights.  The  first  full-grown  trees  of 
the  montana,  crowding  in  among  the  hardy  shrubs  of  the  lower  high- 
lands, began  to  stand  forth  against  the  irregular  patches  of  sky  ahead. 
Jungle  brush  and  undergrowth  sprang  up  about  us.  Moss  and  trop- 
ical herbage  took  to  draping  the  moist  rocks  and  boulders,  until  even 
the  perpendicular  face  of  the  mountain  clothed  itself  in  lush-green 
vegetation.  Ferns,  the  first  I had  seen  in  months,  appeared,  and 
quickly  grew  to  their  gigantic  tropical  forms.  Orchids  were  plentiful, 
and  other  flowers  of  brilliant  colors.  The  government  telegraph  wire 
that  had  followed  us  across  the  bleak,  wind-swept  puna  the  day  before, 
on  poles  shriveled  with  the  cold,  began  to  jump  gaily  from  parasite- 

461 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


laden  tree  to  tree.  Brooks  of  sparkling  clear  water  came  leaping 
down  from  the  unseen  glaciers  and  frozen  heights  above,  to  the  joy 
of  both  man  and  beast.  A condor,  volplaning  on  motionless  wings  high 
above  the  mountain  wall,  looked  like  a sparrow  mingled  with  the  white 
clouds  that  flecked  the  summer  sky.  A soft  wind  caressed  us,  and 
upon  us  fell  that  lazy,  contented  mood  that  always  follows  a descent 
from  the  cold,  nerve-straining  paramo. 

As  we  descended  still  deeper  into  the  fastnesses  of  the  Andes,  the 
solid  granite  precipices,  rising  sheer  thousands  of  feet  from  the  foam- 
ing rapids  to  the  clouds,  remained  at  the  same  height ; but  the  valley  of 
the  river  continued  to  descend,  and  gave  us  the  curious  effect  of  seem- 
ing to  see  the  mountains  that  shut  us  in  rise  ever  higher  into  the  sky. 
The  canon  of  the  Urubamba  had  shrunk  to  a resounding  gorge  of 
sharp  Y-shape,  with  virtually  no  room  left  for  cultivation,  so  that  even 
the  hardy  andenes  of  the  ancients  were  crowded  out  of  existence,  and 
only  the  imperious  river  forced  its  way  through  the  mountains,  per- 
mitting the  narrow  road  to  follow  on  the  precarious  footholds  blasted 
for  it  along  one  of  the  towering  granite  walls.  We  began  to  meet 
yellow,  fever-eyed  walking  skeletons,  straggling  languidly  up  from  the 
tropical  valleys.  These  increased  until  all  the  few  travelers  were 
gaunt  and  hollow-eyed,  and  of  a lifeless  cast  of  countenance.  Now  a 
humid  jungle  hemmed  us  in;  impenetrable  tropical  forest  covered  all 
the  tumbled  mountain  world  about  us,  the  further  ranges  blue-black 
with  distance,  an  unbroken  wilderness  in  which  might  lie  buried  a 
score  of  forgotten  cities.  Trees  assumed  those  fantastic  shapes  that 
startle  or  mock  the  tropical  traveler.  Lianas,  those  great  climbing 
vines  over  which  the  northern  school-boy  dreams  before  his  open 
geography  while  the  snow  swirls  about  the  shivering  window,  swung 
languidly  from  these  giants  of  the  jungle.  The  rampant  vegetation 
clutched  playfully  at  us  along  the  way  ; now  and  again  a branch  reached 
forth  and  whipped  us  in  our  sweated  faces.  The  drowsy  chorus  of  the 
jungles  sounded  about  us;  the  tropical  joy  of  life  took  possession  even 
of  the  professor,  rousing  him  to  song,  so  that  the  canon  resounded 
with  discordant,  rumbling  Middle-Western  noises. 

Toward  four  the  beautiful  jagged  peak  of  Huayna  Picchu  came  into 
sight  down  the  winding  gorge,  puffs  of  white  clouds  hovering  about 
it;  and  we  knew  we  were  approaching  our  goal.  But  things  moved 
with  ever  more  tropical  languor.  In  places  the  road  became  a 
stony  stairway  down  which  we  must  pick  our  way  step  by  step;  in 
others  it  was  pieced  together  with  slivers  of  rock  to  keep  it  from  fall- 

462 


A FORGOTTEN  CITY  OF  THE  ANDES 


ing  sheer  into  the  angry  stream  below.  The  impending  crags  squeezed 
the  trail  to  the  extreme  edge,  so  that  an  unwary  horseman,  gazing  at 
the  riches  of  nature  about  him,  was  not  infrequently  rapped  on  the  head 
by  jagged  points  of  rock  left  by  the  dynamite  of  the  trail-builders. 
Tropical  birds  of  startling  plumage  flitted  in  and  out  of  the  impene- 
trable undergrowth ; the  pungent,  death-suggesting,  yet  enticing  scent 
of  the  tropics  filled  our  nostrils.  The  sun  abandoned  us  early,  and  left 
us  with  a sense  of  being  down  in  some  great  well  dreamily  wondering 
whether  we  should  ever  again  reach  the  broad,  open  world  above. 

Dusk  was  falling  when  the  road  wandered  out  upon  a bit  of  flat 
meadow,  squeezed  between  the  mountain  wall  and  the  now  calmer  river, 
facing  the  breakneck  slopes  of  Huayna  Picchu.  This  was  Mandor- 
pampa.  A grass-thatched  hut  on  poles  served  as  tambo.  As  we  hung 
our  alforjas  over  the  unhewn  beams,  an  unattractive  half-breed,  past 
middle  age  and  scented  with  fire-water,  appeared  from  the  adjoining 
hut  he  occupied  with  a flock  of  Quichua-speaking  women  and  children. 
It  was  he  who  had  first  guided  los  yanquis  to  the  then  jungle-hidden 
Machu  Picchu.  He  had  long  known  of  the  ruins,  as  had  other  na- 
tives, but  had  never  considered  them  extensive  or  important.  In- 
deed, he  seemed  still  to  have  a distinctly  low  opinion  of  them  as 
“ things  of  the  Gentiles,”  not  to  be  compared  with  the  Cathedral  of 
Cuzco,  with  its  tin  saints  and  tinseled  Virgins.  He  promised  to  climb 
to  the  site  with  us  in  the  morning,  however,  for  a consideration,  and 
I fell  to  preparing  supper  over  my  miniature  cooking-range. 

After  it,  we  sat  for  a time  in  the  heavy,  humming,  tropical  night, 
listening  to  the  chirrido  of  jungle  crickets  and  striving  by  anecdote  and 
song  to  keep  up  the  professor’s  spirits,  drooping  under  the  dread  of 
snakes  and  vipers  and  the  thousand  subtle  dangers  of  the  tropics. 
For  the  night  we  arranged  that  Martinelli  should  share  with  the  fam- 
ily chickens  the  pole  couch  of  the  Indian’s  “ guest-room,”  knowing 
that,  as  a Peruvian,  he  preferred  to  sleep  in  as  airless  a spot  as  possi- 
ble, while  the  professor  and  I prepared  to  hoist  ourselves  up  into  the 
garret  of  small  poles  under  the  low  thatched  roof  of  the  tambo.  It 
was  like  stowing  a piano  on  an  upper  bookshelf,  but  we  got  a bit  of 
our  “ beds  ” bunched  under  us  at  last,  and  when  the  poles  had  ceased 
to  sag  and  creak,  I fell  asleep. 

The  humid  darkness  was  showing  signs  of  fading  when  I woke  the 
professor  from  a night  during  which,  by  his  own  testimony,  he  had 
not  slept  a wink.  The  cause  of  his  insomnia  was  not  lack  of  comfort, 
for  the  professor  is  an  experienced  man  of  the  woods,  but  a great 

463 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


mental  anguish.  An  insect  had  stung  him  on  a knuckle.  Now  the 
professor  had  just  come  from  investigating  that  dread  disease  of  the 
Andes  knows  as  uta,  from  the  Ouichua  word  for  rot,  which,  beginning 
in  just  such  an  insect  bite,  eats  away  the  victim's  flesh  until  he  is 
hurried  at  breakneck  speed  into  the  grave.  His  was  too  fixed  a place 
in  the  life  of  our  Middle  West  to  afford  to  be  rotted  away  here  in 
the  Peruvian  jungle  by  a mere  insect.  Naturally  he  wanted  our  ear- 
nest examination  and  experienced  opinion  whether  we  should,  after 
all,  climb  to  Machu  Picchu  or  hurry  back  to  Cuzco  to  call  a conference 
of  the  medical  wiseacres.  I examined  the  bite  solicitously.  There 
was  no  doubt  that  it  was  merely  the  preliminary  nibble  of  the  myriad 
insects  that  would  have  fallen  upon  us  in  earnest,  and  tattooed  us  with 
the  strange  patterns  I had  already  often  worn,  had  we  descended  an- 
other five  thousand  feet  into  the  real  tropics.  But  one  cannot  put 
such  things  cruelly  and  baldly  to  a companion  weighed  down  by  the 
intangible  dread  of  the  subtle,  pest-infested  hot-lands,  from  which  no 
man  is  free  upon  his  first  descent  into  them.  Between  us  we  con- 
vinced the  professor  that  he  would  in  all  probability  outlive  the  day, 
and  by  fog-bound  six  we  were  off. 

The  lover  of  ardent  waters  had  concluded  that  he  could  not  possibly 
get  his  various  activities  in  shape  to  accompany  us  before  eight,  and 
we  decided  to  hobble  along  without  his  historical  assistance.  We  paid 
him  two  soles  to  keep  the  animals  well  fed  and,  lest  the  matter  slip 
his  mind,  left  Tomas  with  him  as  a perpetual  reminder.  This  left  us 
well  burdened  with  our  “ beds  ” and  the  supplies  necessary  to  pass 
the  night,  for  I would  not  hear  of  paying  the  forgotten  city  only  a 
flying  visit.  Being  the  only  one  in  Andean  training,  I volunteered  to 
carry  the  surplus  and,  bowed  under  a bulky  sixty-five  pounds  held 
by  a llama-hair  rope  across  my  chest,  like  any  Indian  cargador,  I led 
the  way  back  along  the  road,  planning  to  boast  myself  forever  after 
the  equal  of  any  aboriginal  burden-bearer  of  the  Andes.  Barely 
had  I reconciled  myself  to  the  perpendicular  climb  in  store  for  us 
under  such  a load,  however,  when  we  came  upon  a gang  of  Indians 
chopping  the  boulder-imbedded  roadway  higher  back  under  the  edge 
of  the  cliff  for  flood-time.  The  foreman  offered  us  carriers.  None 
of  them  were  large ; beside  the  professor  the  impassive  fellows  ap- 
proached dwarfishness,  and  I uttered  a protest  when  Martinelli  waved 
a thumb  at  by  no  means  the  largest.  But  my  fancied  equality  to  the 
human  freight-trains  of  the  Andes  oozed  away  as  suddenly  as  the 
rotundity  of  a pricked  wine-skin.  When  the  Indian  had  swung  upon 

464 


"As  we  rode  eastward  into  the  sunrise  down  the  gorge  of  the  Urubamba,  glacier-clad  Piri 
above  threw  off  its  night  wraps  of  clouds  ** 


The  semicircular  tower  and  some  of  the  finest  stone-cutting  and  fitting  of  Machu  Picchu. 
The  vegetation  had  already  begun  to  grow  up  again  but  a few  months 
after  the  site  had  been  cleared 


A FORGOTTEN  CITY  OF  THE  ANDES 


his  back  the  burden  I had  been  staggering  under  on  a level  roadway, 
Martinelli  nonchalantly  tossed  his  twenty-five  pounds  on  top  of  it.  A 
bit  further  on  that  unfeeling  savage  paused  at  one  of  the  pole-and-leaf 
shelters  of  the  workmen  under  the  edge  of  the  impending  cliff  and 
added  a pair  of  blankets,  a coca-bag,  and  several  other  personal  odds 
and  ends,  then  waltzed  away  as  lightly  as  a prairie  chicken  under  its 
tail-feathers  — faster  than  we  cared  to  follow. 

Perhaps  two  miles  back,  a hidden  path  plunged  swiftly  down  through 
the  wet,  clinging  jungle  to  the  sapling  bridge  that  hung  precariously 
from  rock  to  boulder  across  the  river.  Beyond  the  snarling  stream, 
which  snatched  impotently  at  us  as  we  passed,  sagging,  a perpendicular 
j ungled  mountainside,  apparently  impenetrable,  stared  impassively 
down  upon  us.  But  when  we  had  clambered  and  tripped  some  distance 
over  the  rocks  and  jagged  boulders  at  the  edge  of  the  raging  torrent, 
a hole  in  the  undergrowth,  like  the  lair  of  some  wild  animal,  proved  to 
be  the  beginning  of  a trail,  now  overgrown  almost  to  nothing. 

The  first  mile  up  was  through  densest  wet  jungle.  We  climbed 
clutching  at  the  vegetation  as  at  the  hair  of  some  giant  head  we  were 
striving  to  surmount.  The  average  slope  was  perhaps  sixty-five  de- 
grees, though  there  were  places  virtually  perpendicular  where  to  lose 
an  Andean  level-headedness  would  have  been  to  pitch  many  yards 
down  toward  the  now  hoarse  river  below.  According  to  local  repute, 
this  section  was  notorious  for  its  venomous  snakes,  particularly  a little 
ten-inch  vibora  whose  bite  is  certain  death  unless  the  victim  instantly 
adopts  the  heroic  measures  of  the  Indians  and  carves  out  a Shylock- 
ian  chunk  of  flesh,  cauterize  the  wound  with  a hot  iron,  and  retire  a 
half-year  to  recuperate.  But  as  with  all  tales  of  robbers,  dangers,  and 
sudden  death  on  the  road  ahead,  that  behind  me  trailed  out  harmless 
and  unexciting. 

Gradually  the  heavy  jungle  gave  way  to  a lighter,  stunted  growth 
that  had  once  been  burned  over  and  on  which  the  sun  blazed  down 
mercilessly.  Up  the  all  but  sheer  face  of  this  the  trail  sweated  in 
sharp  zigzags.  Ruminaui,  as  we  had  dubbed  our  stony-eyed  carrier, 
kept  steadily  above  us,  and  though  he  panted  a bit,  it  was  the  least 
burdened  of  us  who  called  now  and  then  for  a breathing-spell.  Dry- 
tongued  with  thirst,  we  came  at  last  to  an  almost  level  shelf  of  the 
mountain,  with  a patch  of  shade.  In  it  grew  a “ Spanish  tomato  ” 
shaped  like  a huge  strawberry,  of  a double  acidity  that  throttled  our 
thirst  for  the  moment.  Somewhat  higher  we  found  ourselves  mount- 
ing ancient  agricultural  terraces.  These  were  walls  of  rough  stone, 

465 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


head  high,  that  sustained  level  spaces  of  like  width.  Far  from  being 
under  cultivation,  the  rich,  black  soil  of  these  artificial  mountain 
shelves  nourished  an  all  but  impassable  tangle  of  new  jungle  growth; 
and  the  trunks  of  great  trees  that  had  been  felled  and  charred  over 
cut  us  off  in  many  directions.  By  working  our  way  laboriously  back 
and  forth,  and  gradually  mounting  several  terraces,  now  by  a canted 
tree-trunk,  now  by  the  four  projecting  stones  set  stair-like  in  the 
faces  of  the  walls,  by  which  the  prehistoric  husbandmen  mounted 
and  descended,  we  found  a terrace  along  which  we  could  tear  our  way, 
and  came  out  at  last,  nearly  two  hours  above  the  river,  on  the  sheer 
edge  of  things.  Machu  Picchu  lay  before  us. 

My  first  impression  was  tinged  with  disappointment.  Aside  from 
the  universal  experience  of  finding  a long-heralded  scene  striking  in 
inverse  ratio  to  the  length  of  time  the  imagination  has  fed  upon  it, 
my  mental  picture  of  a city  seemed  to  call  for  skyscrapers  crowded 
together  over  a vast  area  that  could  be  bound  closely  together 
only  by  a rapid-transit  system.  Measured  by  these  subconscious 
standards,  the  town  the  Incas  or  their  predecessors  had  left  here 
in  the  beautiful  fastnesses  of  the  Urubamba  was  small.  But  at 
least  it  had  been  our  good  fortune  to  catch  the  first  sight  of  it  from 
a splendid  point  of  vantage.  Well  below  us,  and  across  a gully  so 
deep  as  to  be  almost  a valley,  the  abandoned  city  lay  spread  out  under 
the  gorgeous  Andean  sunshine  in  all  its  white-granite  brilliancy ; and 
if  all  the  town  could  not  be  included  in  a view  from  this  point,  or  from 
any  other,  that  view  included  all  the  finer  buildings,  and  left  out  chiefly 
the  extensive  andenes  and  the  third-class  houses  of  those  who  lived 
on  and  worked  them.  Though  roofless,  it  was  otherwise  a complete 
city,  in  so  fine  a state  of  preservation  that  the  beholder  felt  like  one 
of  the  old  Spanish  Conquistadores  in  those  enviable  years  when  there 
were  still  new  worlds  to  discover. 

On  a gigantic  scale,  its  site  was  that  of  an  ancient  feudal  castle. 
A mountain  ridge  defended  by  nature  in  one  of  her  most  solitary 
moods,  and  including  within  its  confines  the  steeple-pointed  peak  of 
Huayna  Picchu,  fell  away  on  every  side  by  tremendous  precipices  into 
the  fearful  void  of  the  Urubamba,  a sheer  unbroken  two  thousand  feet 
to  the  thread-like  river  that  makes  a three  fourths  circle  around  it ; 
while  beyond,  pregnant  with  mystery  of  impassable  jungle  and  the 
story  of  a bygone  race,  lay  a wonderful  wilderness  of  Andean  ranges, 
shaggy  with  dense  forest,  pitched  and  tumbled  and  fading  away  in 
the  blue-black  of  unfathomable  distance.  Yet  how  strange  that  an 

466 


A FORGOTTEN  CITY  OF  THE  ANDES 


entire  city,  a mere  two  days’  ride  from  Cuzco,  should  thus  have  re- 
mained for  centuries  unknown ! Only  he  who  knows  the  Latin- 
American  will  comprehend  how  Machu  Picchu  could  be  so  seldom 
visited  even  now,  after  los  yanquis  have  uncovered  it ; though  the 
cuzquenos  who  passively  wait  for  foreigners  to  come  and  do  what  they 
themselves  should  long  since  have  done  blandly  assume  credit  for  the 
newly  discovered  city,  as  if  they  had  some  part  in  it  because  the  blood 
of  its  builders  runs  in  their  veins.  Yet  to  the  world  at  large  its  exist- 
ence was  never  suspected.  Squier,  noted  for  his  accuracy,  says  self- 
confidently:  “ Ollantaytambo  was  the  frontier  town  and  fortress  of 

the  Incas  in  the  valley  of  the  Ucayali,  as  it  is  to-day  of  their  con- 
querors. There  were  outlying  works  some  leagues  lower  down  at 
Havaspampa,  but  the  bulwark  of  the  Empire  against  the  savage  Antis 
in  this  direction  was  Ollantaytambo.”  Small  wonder  he  heard  noth- 
ing of  a place  not  a whisper  of  which  has  crept  into  all  the  writings 
of  Peru  since  Pizarro’s  secretary  first  took  to  setting  down  the  prowess 
of  his  commander. 

Machu  Picchu  was  indeed  a city  of  refuge.  There  is  no  need  of 
Incaic  lore  and  the  furrowed  brow  of  the  archeologist  to  be  certain 
of  that.  Only  men  scared  beyond  the  functioning  of  goose-flesh  would 
have  scurried  away  into  this  most  inaccessible  nook  of  the  Andes  and 
scrambled  up  these  appalling  cliffs  to  escape  their  pursuers ; only  men 
to  whom  labor  was  nothing  as  compared  with  the  fear  of  bodily  vio- 
lence would  have  toiled  a century  fitting  together  these  gigantic  boul- 
ders, rather  than  sally  forth  and  take  their  chances  against  the  slings 
or  poisoned  arrows  of  their  enemies.  The  slinking,  hare-hearted 
Cuzco  Indian  of  to-day  may  easily  be  their  lineal  descendant. 

Effectively  defended  by  nature  though  they  were,  these  champions  of 
precaution  left  no  loopholes.  Across  the  gully  between  where  we  sat 
and  the  lost  city  they  had  thrown  two  massive  stone  walls  from  sheer 
precipice  to  sheerer.  Outside  this  were  most  of  the  agricultural  ter- 
races, for  within  the  city  proper  was  scant  space  for  cultivation,  and 
in  case  of  attack  the  peasants  no  doubt  abandoned  their  fields  and 
raced  to  town.  Between  these  walls  lay  a dry  moat,  deep  and  wide, 
while  at  the  city  gate  the  fortress  was  constructed  on  the  “ salient  ” 
system  of  Sacsahuaman,  so  that  while  a besieger  was  gently  knocking 
for  admittance  some  member  of  the  goose-flesh  clan  could  stroll  out 
on  the  wall  above  and  drop  a boulder  on  his  astonished  head.  Nor 
was  that  all.  In  every  least  crevice  or  foothold  across  which  the 
champion  trapeze  performer  or  tight-rope  artist  of  the  besieging  tribes 

467 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


could  by  any  stretch  of  the  trembling  imagination  have  squirmed  his 
way,  the  defenders  built  little  patches  of  rock-wall,  in  places  he  only 
will  believe  who  has  climbed  to  see;  and  on  the  tiptop  of  the  neighbor- 
ing heights,  on  Machu  Picchu  mountain,  on  the  steeple-point  of  Huayna 
Picchu,  in  every  crow’s-nest  the  most  athletic  Indian  could  hope  to 
reach,  were  stone  watch-towers,  sometimes  invisible,  from  which  cer- 
tainly the  sentinels  had  some  telegraphic  means  of  passing  word  down 
to  the  cautious  city.  There  were  no  adventurers  among  the  builders 
of  Machu  Picchu.  They  took  no  chances. 

When  we  had  drunk  in  this  comprehensive  view  of  the  forgotten 
city,  we  descended  by  projecting  terrace  stones  and  j ungled  zigzags 
and  finally  by  a great  stone  stairway  to  the  dry  moat,  then  by  a graded 
approach  to  the  city  gate,  always  tearing  our  way  through  thick  under- 
growth. For  though  “ los  chapetes  ” had  cleared  away  the  dense 
tropical  forest  that  had  hidden  the  city  from  civilized  man  since  his- 
torical time  began,  the  rampant  vegetation  was  striving  quickly  to  con- 
ceal it  again,  as  if  jealous  of  its  beauty  or  guardian  of  its  secret. 
Being  far  more  determined  in  its  efforts  than  the  apathetic  Peruvians, 
it  bade  fair  to  succeed.  Already  the  caila  brazv  waved  impudently 
head-high  everywhere,  and  what  might  grow  to  such  trees  as  had  been 
felled  in  hundreds  were  already  sprouting  forth  again  here  and  there 
from  between  the  interstices  of  the  splendid  walls.  A deserving- 
politician  caretaker  had  been  appointed  by  the  government,  but  he 
was  caring  for  both  Machu  Picchu  and  Ollantaytambo  by  living  in 
Cuzco  on  his  salary. 

We  sent  Ruminaui  ahead  to  stack  our  junk  under  the  weather- 
blackened  thatch  roof  supported  by  four  slender  legs,  down  in  a central 
space  that  might  have  been  a parade-ground  or  a garden  to  fall  back 
upon  in  time  of  siege.  There  we  hastened  to  disentangle  the  canvas 
bucket  and  bade  him  “ Unuta  apamuy.”  But  it  was  more  easily 
ordered  than  brought.  The  cut-stone  basins  to  which  small  acequias 
had  once  carried  water  down  off  the  shoulders  of  the  range  behind 
had  gone  stone-dry,  and  as  we  lay  choking  in  the  welcome  shade, 
surviving  only  on  the  anticipation  of  the  cooiing  draughts  soon  to 
come,  the  Indian  came  wandering  back  with  that  apathetic  expression- 
lessness of  his  race  — the  bucket  empty.  Martinelli  rose  up,  cursing 
in  three  tongues,  to  lead  him,  and  soon  returned  to  say  that  a well- 
filled  bucket  was  following  close  behind.  But  Martinelli  was  a 
Peruvian,  given  like  all  his  race  to  counting  his  chickens  before  the 
eggs  are  laid.  After  fighting  his  way  through  the  jungle  to  the  edge 

468 


“ We  came  out  on  the  edge  of  things  and  Machu  Picchu  lay  before  us  " 


A FORGOTTEN  CITY  OF  THE  ANDES 


of  the  hollow  “ where  the  spring  really  is,”  he  had  neglected  to  de- 
scend ten  yards  further  through  the  bushes  to  find  whether  the  spring 
really  was.  So  that  a few  yards  behind  his  resuscitating  announce- 
ment came  trailing  Ruminaui,  more  stony-eyed  than  ever,  still  carry- 
ing a collapsed  bucket. 

Audible  expression  of  our  inmost  sentiments  would  have  been  the 
opposite  of  thirst-quenching,  and  as  each  day  consists  of  a limited 
number  of  hours,  even  in  the  waterless  tropics,  I slung  my  kodak  over 
a shoulder  and  set  out  to  see  as  much  as  possible  before  preservation 
of  life  might  force  a hurried  descent  to  the  river.  The  fancied  dis- 
appointment of  the  first  view  had  worn  completely  away.  As  the 
mind  adapted  itself  to  pre-Columbian  standards,  the  abandoned  city 
assumed  its  true  aspect,  that  of  a delicate  work  of  art  of  intensive 
construction.  Here  in  this  eagle’s  nest  of  the  Andes,  virtually  cut 
off  from  the  rest  of  the  world,  had  lived  an  artistic  and  adaptable 
people  with  a capacity  for  concentration  of  effort,  for  sustained  en- 
deavor, and  a high  grade  of  efficiency  now  lost  among  the  Peruvians. 
Virtually  all  the  stone  work  of  the  better  part  of  the  city  was  of 
the  very  best  “ Inca  style”  in  plan,  cut,  and  fit.  Nothing  I had  seen 
in  all  the  length  of  the  Andes,  from  Canar  in  the  far  north,  could 
surpass  these  walls,  rivaled  only  by  those  of  Cuzco ; and  even  those  of 
the  City  of  the  Sun  cannot  match  the  charming  uniform  color  of  this 
white-gray  granite,  approaching  in  beauty  to  pure  marble.  Whereas 
Sacsahuaman  and  Ollantaytambo  seemed  massive,  Cyclopean,  this  new 
city  of  old  gives  the  effect  of  a delicate  gem  in  a peerless  setting  — 
though  the  man  of  to-day  ordered  to  tote  the  smallest  block  in  the 
average  wall  would  not  exactly  refer  to  it  as  delicate. 

Like  the  remains  of  Cuzco,  the  ruins  are  exclusively  confined  to  walls. 
The  Inca  civilization  seems  to  have  been  of  that  utilitarian  turn  of 
mind  that  gives  its  attention  chiefly  to  the  practical,  with  the  result 
that  to-day  there  is  not  a statue  in  the  length  and  breadth  of  Peruvian 
ruins  ; and  the  grass-thatched  roofs  beyond  which  these  unrivaled  stone- 
cutters did  not  advance  may  have  fallen  in  centuries  before  Pizarro 
first  herded  his  pigs  among  the  foothills  of  Estremadura.  But  as 
walls  they  are  unsurpassed,  fitted  with  so  tireless  a nicety  that,  even 
without  mortar,  they  stand  to-day,  except  where  the  roots  of  trees 
have  crowded  in  between  them,  striking  illustrations  of  that  time- 
worn phrase  of  all  Peruvian  chroniclers  from  Garsilaso  to  Squier, 
“ so  that  a knife-blade  cannot  be  inserted  between  them.”  Marble- 
white  walls  there  were  so  splendidly  symmetrical  that  time  after  time 

469 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


the  enraptured  eye  stole  along  them  as  over  a beloved  form.  As 
with  all  Inca  architecture,  everything, — walls,  doors,  niches  — de- 
creased in  size  toward  the  top,  at  about  the  slope  of  the  surrounding 
precipices,  carrying  the  mind  back  to  Karnak  and  the  ruins  of  the 
Nile.  Every  possible  ground-boulder  or  rock-ledge  and  mountain- 
platform  was  made  full  use  of,  and  the  eye  at  times  hardly  detects 
where  the  building  of  nature  leaves  off  and  the  planning  of  man  begins. 

Hidden  away  from  the  iconoclastic,  gold-thirsting  Spaniards,  and  so 
far  distant  from  the  dwellings  of  his  effete  descendants  that  trans- 
portation of  its  blocks  for  their  own  botching  is  impossible,  Machu 
Picchu  has  escaped  the  common  fate  of  the  other  pre-Columbian  ruins 
of  the  Andes  and  remains  a city  intact,  like  Pompeii,  as  genuine  as 
when  its  inhabitants  abandoned  it,  carrying  off  perhaps  their  house- 
hold gods  and  the  revered  remains  of  their  ancestors.  But  for  the 
missing  roof,  scores  of  buildings  are  as  well  preserved  as  on  the  day 
their  dwellers  departed.  Rough-stone,  windowed  gables  — though 
both  Humboldt  and  Prescott  deny  the  existence  of  gables  or  windows 
in  ancient  Peru  — stand  everywhere  peaked  above  the  general  level, 
sometimes  still  bearing  the  stump  of  a great  tree  the  roots  of  which 
had  curled  and  twined  in  among  the  stones  wherever  a handful  of 
soil  was  to  be  found  to  feed  upon.  The  ruins  seemed  to  sprout  flowers 
and  trees.  Giants  of  the  forest  grew  wherever  there  was  a suggestion 
of  foothold;  with  a Jewish  persistency  they  had  crowded  in  between 
apparently  inseparable  stone  blocks;  great  trees  had  sprung  up  and 
grown  to  man’s  estate  in  unbelievable  places,  on  the  very  peaks  of  frail 
stone  gables,  even  out  from  between  the  still  tight-fitted  granite  boul- 
ders. The  task  of  “ los  yanquis  ” had  been  no  sinecure.  They  had 
felled  an  entire  tropical  forest,  with  giant  trees  a century  old,  the 
charred  trunks  of  a few  of  which  lay  as  they  had  fallen,  like  glutton- 
ous bandits  overtaken  at  their  stolen  feast,  convenient  stairways  now 
from  one  terrace  to  another.  But  much  care  had  been  necessary. 
Many  a stump  must  be  left  where  it  stood,  for  even  to  attempt  its 
removal  would  frequently  have  brought  down  half  the  structure  it 
grew  in.  Besides  clearing  it  of  the  concealing  vegetation,  the  Ameri- 
cans had  dug  away  in  places  several  feet  of  soil  and  had  presented  at 
last  the  entire  city,  with  its  alignment  of  streets,  its  “ baths,”  temples, 
palaces,  and  blocks  of  dwellings.  The  finest  ruins  of  the  Western 
Hemisphere,  the  mystery  of  this  city  of  the  unpeopled  wilderness 
trebles  its  fascination.  How  could  such  a place  have  completely  eluded 
the  foraging  Spaniards?  How  could  long  centuries  have  passed  dur- 

470 


A FORGOTTEN  CITY  OF  THE  ANDES 


ing  which  Ollantaytambo  was  accepted  as  the  last  monument  of  im- 
portance in  the  valley  of  the  Urubamba?  How  — 

But  just  then  a cry  of  “ Cancha  unu!  ” from  Martinelli,  who  affected 
Quichua  since  he  found  I had  some  knowledge  of  it,  brought  me  tear- 
ing back  through  the  undergrowth  to  the  roof  on  legs.  Back  along 
one  of  the  terraces  a trickling  supply  of  water  had  been  found,  and  now 
we  might  take  time  to  view  the  ruins  more  leisurely.  We  concocted 
a lunch  and  sent  Stony-Eye  to  carry  our  possessions  to  a “ sacred 
cave  ” among  the  palaces. 

The  town  centers  about  the  main  plaza,  with  its  splendid  wrought- 
stone  temple,  backed  by  the  priest’s  dwelling  with  the  sacred  hill  piled 
up  behind  it.  Here,  too,  is  the  temple  of  the  three  windows,  so  un- 
usual a feature  of  prehistoric  Peruvian  architecture  that  the  chief  of 
the  excavators  connects  it  with  the  tradition  of  the  three  brothers 
who  came  out  of  as  many  windows  to  found  the  Empire  of  the 
Incas.  “ A1  principio  del  mundo,”  as  Garsilaso  puts  it, — “ In  the  be- 
ginning of  the  world,  say  the  Indians  who  live  to  the  east  and  north 
of  the  city  of  Cuzco,  three  brothers  sallied  forth  through  some  win- 
dows in  some  rocks,  which  they  called  royal  windows.”  Certainly,  if 
this  is  the  original  Tampu  Tocco  from  which  came  the  founders  of 
the  Empire,  they  improved  little  in  their  building  during  the  long 
years  between  Machu  Picchu  and  the  construction  of  Cuzco.  Its 
sponsor  considers  the  city  a thousand  years  old.  Yet  though  the 
virile  simplicity  of  its  construction  is  untouched  by  the  beginning 
of  that  ornateness  that  marks  decadence  in  all  civilizations,  there  is 
something  of  delicacy  and  artistic  splendor,  even  amid  a curious  mix- 
ture of  the  crude  and  primitive,  that  does  not  seem  to  bespeak  an 
older  and  less-developed  people  than  the  builders  of  Cuzco. 

The  long,  solid  walls  are  broken,  as  in  most  Inca  structures,  by 
niches  large  and  small,  mere  shallow  closets  without  doors,  with  cylin- 
drical projecting  stones  alternating  between  them.  These  have  been 
fancied,  among  other  things,  to  have  been  wardrobes  and  hooks  for 
clothing,  but  the  habit  of  their  descendants  suggest  that  the  builders 
were  content  to  hang  their  garments  on  the  floor.  Though  larger  than 
the  average  Andean  dwelling  of  to-day,  houses  of  more  than  one  room 
are  rare.  The  ancient  Peruvians  were  evidently  as  indifferent  to  lack 
of  privacy  as  their  modern  successors.  Along  the  walls  are  stone 
couches  as  comfortable  as  those  of  sun-baked  mud  which  the  weary 
traveler  is  fortunate  to  find  in  the  better-class  houses  of  the  interior 
to  this  day.  They  probably  had  as  little  furniture  as  their  descendants, 

471 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


and  the  host  of  long  ago  no  doubt  greeted  his  guest  with  that  self- 
same “Tome  asiento  ” (Be  seated)  and  a wave  of  the  hand  toward 
a six-inch  block  of  wood  or  a sharp  corner  of  stone.  They  lived 
apparently  more  thickly  than  in  any  modern  tenement-house,  and  the 
problem  of  increase  of  population  must  have  been  acute.  Was  it 
this  internal  pressure  that  forced  them  finally  to  abandon  their  eagle’s- 
nest?  Every  square  foot  of  ground  was  utilized,  the  rooms  densely 
crowded  together,  with  even  subterranean  dwellings,  and  long  rows 
of  rough-stone  houses  stand  steeply  one  above  the  other  on  the  swift 
precipices  of  the  city. 

For  all  its  ups  and  downs  — and  it  was  next  to  impossible  to  go 
somewhere  else  in  Machu  Picchu  without  climbing  or  descending  — 
intercommunication  was  amply  provided.  Scores  of  stairways  of  all 
lengths  and  sizes,  often  laboriously  cut  out  of  a single  ground-boulder, 
lead  everywhere.  Mrs.  Tocco  had  no  difficulty  in  dropping  in  on 
Mrs.  Huasi  simply  because  she  lived  in  another  clan-group  or  up 
over  her  head.  Tunnels,  too,  were  common  to  this  ingenious  race  of 
stone-cutters,  and  fat  men  must  have  been  as  rare  as  among  the  In- 
dians of  to-day,  or  distinctly  limited  in  their  movements.  No  nation 
under  blockade  ever  made  more  intensive  use  of  its  agricultural  pos- 
sibilities. Within  a radius  of  several  miles  not  a possible  foot  of 
ground  escaped  cultivation.  The  soil,  carried  perhaps  from  a great 
distance,  was  richly  fertile,  and  to  these  men  of  a bygone  race  the 
building  of  a massive  stone  wall  to  support  half  its  size  in  arable 
ground  was  all  in  the  day’s  work.  The  terraces  on  the  north  side  of 
the  mountain,  half  agricultural,  half  defensive,  drop  swiftly  away  as 
long  as  there  is  a suggestion  of  foothold,  and  those  on  the  west  of  the 
sacred  plaza  and  below  the  intihuatana,  or  sun-dial,  go  down  so  ver- 
tiginously hand  over  hand  that  there  could  have  been  no  dizzy  heads 
among  the  husbandmen  of  long  ago.  It  was  easy  for  the  peasant  of 
those  days  to  do  away  with  an  enemy ; he  had  only  to  reach  down 
from  his  own  field  and  push  his  rival  off  his  three-foot  farm  into 
bottomless  oblivion. 

I pushed  on  toward  the  outskirts.  The  social  inequalities  of  to-day 
were  as  native  to  the  civilization  of  this  lost  race.  As  one  left  the 
center,  the  houses  grew  less  and  less  like  the  cut-stone  palaces ; on  the 
edges  of  the  town  hung  mere  cobblestone  hovels,  little  better  than  the 
miserable  dens  of  the  modern  Indian.  All  about  them  now  was  ram- 
pant cane  jungle.  On  the  slopes,  from  the  interstices  between  the 
rocks,  even  on  the  thatched  roof  of  last  year’s  shelter  of  the  workmen, 

472 


One  of  the  many  stairways  of  Machu  Picchu.  “ The  The  resounding  gorge  of  the  Urubamba,  with  terraces 

eye  could  scarcely  detect  where  the  building  of  the  ancient  inhabitants  on  the 

of  nature  left  off  and  the  planning  inaccesible  left  bank 

of  man  began  ” 


A FORGOTTEN  CITY  OF  THE  ANDES 


grew  big  yellow  calabashes,  like  gypsy  pumpkins.  Then  there  was 
wild  corn  and  self-sown  potatoes,  bushes  of  ripe  aji,  the  beloved 
peppers  of  the  Incas,  in  deep  reds  and  greens.  These  were  no  doubt 
the  chief  products  of  olden  times,  constantly  threatened  with  suffoca- 
tion by  the  belligerent  tropical  vegetation.  Monarch  of  all  he  sur- 
veyed — and  it  was  much  — the  ruler  of  this  aery  probably  lived 
chiefly  on  corn  and  frozen  potatoes,  ground  in  such  carved  stone  mor- 
tars as  are  still  to  be  found  here ; and  he  could  not  have  been  over- 
whelmingly troubled  with  a longing  for  the  fleshpots  or  for  other  ex- 
citement than  that  his  enemies  gave  him.  For  he  does  not  seem  to 
have  often  visited  other  towns,  and  even  “ los  yanquis  ” found  no 
ruins  of  theater  or  billiard-hall. 

The  Incas,  using  the  word  broadly,  showed  an  extraordinary  liking 
for  building  where  they  had  an  unbroken  outlook  over  all  the  sur- 
rounding world.  Lovers  of  nature,  perhaps,  though  the  apparently 
complete  indifference  of  their  descendants  to  its  charms  and  moods 
makes  this  debatable,  they  were,  above  all,  practical  fellows,  moved 
less  by  esthetic  reasons  than  by  an  overwhelming  dislike  of  being 
awakened  from  an  afternoon  siesta  by  a well-aimed  boulder.  Yet 
had  their  only  quest  been  unrivaled  situations,  that  of  Machu  Picchu 
could  scarcely  have  been  improved  upon.  Mere  words  or  pictures 
give  faint  idea  of  the  unique  charm  of  the  place.  Men  not  merely 
of  iron  will  and  endless  patience,  they  must  also  have  had  a fixed 
and  unchanging  policy  for  generations,  for  with  such  tools  as  they 
possessed  it  is  inconceivable  that  they  could  have  built  Machu  Picchu 
in  less  than  a century.  Not  even  their  ambitionless  descendants  of 
to-day  have  less  of  the  wanderlust  than  they ; and  what  a conviction 
of  the  perpetual  endurance  of  the  status  quo  was  theirs,  to  take  such 
infinite  pains  in  their  building  that  they  need  not  even  be  repaired  for 
centuries.  Were  they  driven  out  by  the  fierce  Aymaras  from  the 
south,  or  by  the  dreaded  “ huari-ni,”  the  “ breechless  ” tribes  from  the 
hot-lands  below,  which  the  meek  Indian  of  the  highlands  fears  to 
this  day;  were  they  suddenly  wiped  out  by  an  epidemic;  or  did  they 
gather  strength  and  courage  after  centuries  of  hiding  in  this  lofty 
nest  and  sally  forth  with  the  avowed  intention  of  conquering  the 
world,  perhaps  to  be  destroyed,  and  the  secret  of  their  city  with  them  ? 
Every  traveler  knows  how  isolated  groups  of  men  gradually  come  to 
fancy  themselves  superior  to  all  the  rest  of  the  universe.  Whatever 
the  cause  of  the  migration,  it  must  have  taken  stern  renunciation  to 
leave  behind  so  much  of  the  work  of  themselves  and  their  ancestors. 

473 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


I was  aroused  from  my  musings  by  a crashing  in  the  jungle,  and 
the  professor  hailed  me  with,  “ Wait ! I want  your  advice  ! ” It  was 
that  awful  bite  on  the  knuckle  again.  By  this  time  it  had  grown  to 
nearly  the  size  of  the  second  letter  of  this  word,  was  a pale  red  in 
color,  and  about  it  was  a swelling  that  could  plainly  be  seen  under 
a microscope,  or  without  one  by  a man  with  good  eyes  and  a badly 
worried  imagination. 

“ Now  of  course  this  might  not  turn  out  to  be  uta,”  said  the  victim, 
in  an  agitated  voice,  “ but  if  it  should,  twenty-four  hours  delay  might 
make  all  the  difference  in  the  world,  and  I wonder  if  it  would  n’t  be 
prudent , at  least,  to  go  down  now  and  get  started  back  to  Cuzco.” 

I examined  the  alarming  symptom  with  care.  There  was  no  doubt 
that  it  was  the  dreaded  “ rot  ” — bally  rot,  in  fact.  As  to  the  swelling, 
had  not  I myself  more  than  once  been  so  swollen  by  tropical  insects 
that  my  best  friends  would  not  have  recognized  me  in  a bar-room? 
Moreover,  I was  not  to  be  cheated  out  of  the  night  I had  promised 
myself  in  the  abandoned  city,  and  from  words  of  sympathy  and  re- 
assurance, I led  the  conversation  deftly  and  gently  back  through  the 
mention  of  the  professor’s  large  life-insurance  policy,  to  the  dangers 
of  life  here  in  the  days  of  the  Incas,  who  had  not  even  those  post-mor- 
tem sops  to  make  existence  bearable,  until  the  terror  of  the  tropics, 
inherent  in  all  men  of  the  temperate  zone,  was  buried  beneath  the 
fascinating  mystery  of  the  fathomless  past. 

The  earth  offers  few  such  views  as  that  from  the  intihuatana,  the 
“ place  where  the  sun  was  tied,”  at  the  top  of  the  town.  There  the 
great  topping  boulder  has  been  carved  into  an  upright  shaft  of  stone, 
of  symbolic  sacredness  no  doubt  in  those  bygone  days  when  the 
people  of  Peru  made  the  error  of  worshipping  the  sun  instead  of 
bowing  down  before  wooden  images,  though  it  looks  as  much  like  a 
beheading-block  as  a sun-dial.  The  scene  is  best  enjoyed  alone.  The 
intrusion  of  modern  man  seems  to  break  the  spell,  and  the  imagina- 
tion halts  lamely  in  its  striving  to  build  up  the  past.  Literally  at  my 
feet  the  world  dropped  away  sheer  to  the  Urubamba,  like  a copper 
thread  all  but  encircling  the  entire  city  with  what  is  virtually  one 
precipice.  The  altitude  of  Machu  Picchu  is  put  at  8500  feet  and 
that  of  the  river  at  2000  less,  yet  it  is  surprising  how  distinctly  the  roar 
of  the  stream  comes  up  to  the  very  top  of  the  invulnerable  city.  Utterly 
unpeopled,  the  visible  world  is  one  tumbled  mass  of  gigantic  forest- 
clad  mountains  rolling  away  to  inaccessible  distance-blue  ranges,  rising 
afar  off  to  snow-capped  crests  mingled  with  the  sky.  Here  are  not  the 

474 


A FORGOTTEN  CITY  OF  THE  ANDES 


haggard  and  sterile  Andes  of  elsewhere,  but  softened,  undulating  forms, 
so  densely  wooded  that  nowhere  is  a spot  of  earth  visible.  Swing 
round  the  circle,  and  on  the  other  side  the  gaze  falls  as  precipitously 
into  the  Urubamba.  There  three  great  ranges  rise  one  behind  another, 
fading  from  blue  to  the  purple  of  vast  distances,  until  the  icy  wall 
of  the  Central  Cordillera  shuts  off  all  the  world  beyond.  In  another 
direction  the  rolling  purple  ranges  die  enticingly  away  one  beyond 
the  other  into  the  great  Montana  and  the  hot-lands  of  the  Amazon, 
while  masses  of  pure  white  clouds  come  floating  majestically  up  out 
of  Brazil  beyond.  One  regrets  having  to  return  as  he  came,  always 
a misfortune,  and  the  gaze  falls  again  to  the  hoarse  thread  of  river 
below,  watching  it  wind  away  into  the  mystery  of  the  unknown,  to 
break  through  the  central  range  beyond  where  the  eye  loses  it,  and  so 
on  away,  away.  But  the  chief  hardship  of  travel  is  renunciation. 

Here,  in  what  is  to-day  the  home  only  of  the  condor,  one  may  muse, 
but  muse  in  vain,  on  the  history  of  Machu  Picchu.  A thousand  years 
old;  and  a thousand  years  hence  it  will  still  be  here!  Why  is  man 
of  such  perishable  stuff  that  mere  rocks  and  stones  may  laugh  at  the 
brevity  of  his  existence?  If  only  one  could  call  back  the  ancient 
inhabitants  to  tell  their  story ! Did  they  build  so  long  before  the  Con- 
quest that  the  city  was  already  overgrown  and  forgotten  when  the 
bearded  centaurs  first  appeared  to  startle  and  undo  their  descendants  ? 
Or  was  this  some  secret  holy  spot  the  Indians  concealed  by  silence 
even  from  the  garrulous  descendant  of  Huayna  Ccapac?  Were  its 
existence  known  to  them,  why  did  not  Tupac  Amaru  and  his  followers 
set  up  a defence  here  against  the  Spaniards?  For  even  in  those  days 
the  place  would  have  been  invulnerable  against  anything  but  treachery 
from  within. 

However  baffling  its  story,  it  is  not  difficult  for  one  who  has  wan- 
dered along  the  Andes  to  build  up  a picture  of  the  living  city  of  the 
past  as  he  sits  here  in  the  declining  day,  lulled  yet  excited  by  the 
ceaseless  music  of  the  Urubamba  far  below,  mysterious,  Indian-like 
in  its  impassiveness,  as  if  it  knew,  but  were  sworn  forever  to  guard, 
the  secret  it  has  girdled  with  its  impregnable  precipices  for  unknown 
centuries.  Before  the  inner  eye  the  many  stone  stairways  take  on  life. 
Up  and  down  them  move  unhurriedly,  yet  actively,  thick-set  men  and 
women  with  broad,  copper-tinted  faces,  noiseless  in  their  bare  feet, 
their  garments  a constant  interweaving  of  many  bright  colors.  The 
hundreds  of  peaked  gables  take  on  gothic-steep  roofs  of  thatch,  sym- 
metrical, carefully  made,  perhaps  with  decorated  ceilings  within,  at 

475 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


least  in  the  temples  and  palaces.  Llamas  step  silently  through  the 
narrow  streets,  gazing  with  haughty  dreaminess  about  them.  From 
all  the  crowded  city  rises  the  hum  of  busy,  bucolic  life,  yet  not  noisily, 
for  the  general  tone  is  peaceful  industry  and  a phlegmatic  preoccupa- 
tion. Now  and  again  the  hollow  boom  of  a wooden  gong  rises  and 
dies  away  in  one  of  the  sacred  temples.  As  the  shadows  lengthen, 
bare-legged  workmen,  a cheek  swollen  with  a cud  of  coca,  mount  up 
the  breakneck  terraces  below,  waving  with  Indian  corn  or  purple  with 
potato-blossoms,  pass  silently  along  the  brow  of  the  intihuatana  hill, 
and  hurry  unhurriedly  on  to  their  cobble-stone  huts  in  the  crowded 
outskirts.  A greater  hush  than  before  falls  on  all  the  scene,  except 
for  the  never-varying  voice  of  the  Urubamba,  as  the  Inca,  majestic 
of  mien,  the  royal  llauta  about  his  forehead,  attended  a certain  dis- 
tance by  respectful  nobles  bearing  the  symbolic  burden  on  their  shoul- 
ders, mounts  to  the  sacred  rock.  There,  alone,  or  attended  at  respect- 
ful aloofness  only  by  the  high-priests  of  the  little  temple  behind,  he 
watches  the  god  of  the  Peruvians  of  old  sink  swiftly,  as  it  was  sinking 
now,  behind  the  snow  range  that  stands  out  cold  and  clear  to  the 
west,  and  sees  the  labyrinth  of  shaggy,  wooded  ranges  beyond  the 
bottomless  void  below  melt  and  merge  into  one  common,  fading-purple 
whole.  Off  in  a corner  of  the  city,  on  the  brow  of  the  headlong 
precipice,  comes  faintly  to  the  imperial  ears  the  sound  of  stone  striking 
stone,  where  the  miscreant  sentenced  that  day  to  carve  a new  seat  in 
an  over-carved  boulder  before  the  coming  of  the  new  moon  plies  his 
task.  With  full  darkness  even  this  ceases.  The  faint  smoke-columns 
of  the  supper-fires  die  away,  and  before  the  night  is  an  hour  old 
the  entire  city  is  sunk  in  slumber,  save  only  the  watchmen  in  their 
towers  and  aeries  behind  and  above,  and  along  the  city  wall  in  the 
hollow  beneath.  From  these  come  faint  glows  to  punctuate  the  dark- 
ness of  the  Andean  night,  then  nothing,  and  from  a living  city  Machu 
Picchu  returns  to  what  it  is,  an  utterly  unpeopled  mountain-peak  cut 
off  from  all  the  known  world,  into  which  have  intruded  three  hob- 
nailed beings  of  noisy  modern  days,  and  their  stony-eyed  serving-man 
briefly  loaned  from  that  world  of  long  ago. 

Martinelli  was  inclined  to  sleep  in  the  sacred  cave  under  the  circu- 
lar tower.  To  this  the  professor  objected,  as  too  “snaky,”  and  they 
compromised  on  the  long  stone  bench  above,  near  the  finest  wall  in 
Machu  Picchu.  When  they  were  settled,  I piled  my  bedding  on  the 
back  of  Ruminaui,  and  drove  him  away  into  the  humid,  viper-teeming 
darkness  Sailing  under  sealed  orders,  he  tore  his  way  fearfully 

476 


The  temple  of  the  three  windows,  an  unusual  feature  of  Inca  architecture 


Ruminaui’*  seated  on  the  intihuatana,  or  sun-dial,  at  the  top  of  the  town,  from  which  the 
world  falls  away  a sheer  2000  feet  to  the  Urubamba  below 


A FORGOTTEN  CITY  OF  THE  ANDES 


through  the  undergrowth  that  clutched  at  him  with  a thousand  unseen 
fingers,  down  through  the  jungle-grown  heart  of  the  town  and  knee- 
deep  across  the  sacred  plaza,  its  three  great  windows  staring  all  but 
invisible  at  us  in  the  night.  On  I pursued  the  trembling  wretch  into 
the  three-sided  high-temple,  the  most  imposing  structure  of  Machu 
Picchu,  and  three  times  bade  him  pile  his  load  up  on  the  stone  altar 
before  he  would  believe  his  ears.  When  I murmured  “ illimni  ” (“  all 
right”),  he  turned  tail  and  fled  so  suddenly  that  he  forgot  even  the 
customary  leave-taking. 

Above,  below,  and  all  about  me  the  night  was  chanting  its  mysterious 
pagan  song.  The  distant  roar  of  the  Urubamba  came  up  clear  and 
sharp.  In  the  sky  above,  myriad  stars  shone  forth  with  that  unusual 
brightness  of  upper  heights.  The  rest  was  blackness.  I cleared  away 
a few  plants  and  parasites  from  the  altar  and  the  niches  above.  It 
was  an  immense  cut-stone  fourteen  feet  long  and  five  high,  but  a bare 
three  feet  wide,  and  a long  drop  for  an  uneasy  sleeper.  I rolled  out 
saddle-blanket  and  ponchos  to  form  the  “ bed  ” of  many  an  Andean 
night ; then  unconsciously,  in  an  instant,  I solved  the  niche  problem 
that  has  been  harassing  Peruvian  antiquarians  for  centuries.  Nothing 
could  be  simpler ! The  bygone  race  broke  the  long  surfaces  of  their 
walls  with  these  half-openings  neither  as  settings  for  their  idols  nor  as 
stations  for  their  guards,  but  as  convenient  places  in  which  to  lay 
their  leggings,  hobnailed  boots,  and  tin  watches  for  the  night.  I 
am  by  no  means  the  only  one  who  will  be  glad  to  have  the  problem 
solved  at  last. 

It  would  have  been  easy  for  the  high  priest  to  have  dropped  in  on 
me  during  the  night,  or  to  have  sent  his  henchmen  to  do  likewise 
with  a few  rocks  and  boulders,  even  if  he  could  not  have  arranged 
for  me  a dance  of  his  private  nustas,  especially  as  the  temple  is  now 
roofless.  But  I slept  the  night  through  monotonously  undisturbed, 
waking  only  once  to  congratulate  myself  on  being  so  far  removed  from 
the  disturbing  living  world,  and  falling  asleep  again  without  even 
feeling  to  find  whether  my  revolver  still  hung  within  easy  reach. 

Long  wilderness  travel  seems  to  develop  in  the  nostrils  a power  to 
scent  the  dawn.  I had  finished  dressing  when  the  night  began  to 
pale  along  its  eastern  rim,  and  striding  away  through  the  dew-dripping 
jungle  and  down  the  great  central  stone  stairway,  I came  upon  the 
professor  and  Martinelli  huddled  together  end  to  end  on  their  roofless 
stone  couch,  snoring  oblivious  of  the  fact  that  the  daylight  in  which 
no  true  traveler  sleeps  had  already  come.  The  opportunity  for  cor- 

477 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


rection  was  too  precious  to  lose.  Close  beside  them  I drew  my  re- 
volver and  fired  a roaring  38-caliber  shot  into  the  rosy  dawn  over- 
head. Mere  words  are  powerless  to  picture  the  slothful  pair  as  they 
exploded  forth  from  their  coverings,  with  the  rampant  hair  and  fist- 
like eyes  of  Puritans  suddenly  fallen  upon  by  a band  of  Indians  in 
the  good  old  days  when  Puritans  were  fair  prey.  In  the  sacred  cave 
below  I found  Ruminaui  also  sitting  up  in  his  “ bed,”  scratching  the 
sleep  out  of  his  eyes,  and  having  sent  him  for  my  possessions  set  to 
boiling  coffee  while  listening  to  the  sad  story  of  my  companions. 

Barely  had  I left  them  to  their  own  protection  the  evening  before 
when  Martinelli  thought  he  felt  a snake  strike  his  boot,  and  shouted 
in  alarm.  (By  morning  light  he  found  a cactus-spine  had  pricked 
him  through  the  leather.)  Then  Ruminaui  had  come  with  a long 
and  dolorous  Quichua  tale  of  the  tribes  of  “ viboras  ” that  had  their 
nests  in  the  interstices  of  the  wall  beside  and  above  them,  and  only 
awaited  the  stillness  of  the  night  to  sally  forth  on  their  deadly  er- 
rands. This  in  turn  recalled  to  the  professor  that  the  so-called  circular 
“ snake-windows  ” were  in  this  very  building,  and  caused  him  to 
scrunch  down,  head  and  all,  into  his  sleeping-bag,  hoping  against  hope 
that  no  deadly  viper  could  bite  through  its  several  thicknesses.  To 
make  life  even  more  miserable,  another  gnat  had  stung  him  on  an- 
other knuckle, — a voracious  creature,  evidently,  so  bent  on  destruc- 
tion that  it  had  made  a special  trip  up  from  the  valley  below  for 
this  nefarious  purpose,  since  insects  do  not  commonly  inhabit  Machu 
Picchu.  Now,  it  might  be  that  the  first  bite  had  not  injected  the 
dread  uta,  but  surely  no  ordinary  man  could  hope  to  survive  a second. 
So  that  all  the  bitter  night  through  the  professor  lay  — or,  more  ex- 
actly, curved  — rigid  and  motionless  within  his  six-foot  sleeping-bag  on 
the  extreme  outer  edge  of  the  stone  divan,  as  far  as  possible  from  the 
viperous  wall,  yet  always  in  fear  of  taking  the  awful  two-foot  drop 
to  the  reptilian  ground  beneath,  while  before  his  sunken  eyes  passed 
in  cinematographic  succession  the  picture  of  the  dread  “ rot  ” he  could 
distinctly  feel  creeping  and  crawling  through  all  his  frame,  devouring 
it  limb  by  limb,  feature  by  feature,  the  awful  news  seeping  out  into 
the  Middle  West  that  one  of  his  most  cherished  citizens  had  been 
brought  to  grief  by  a mere  insect  of  the  Andes ! But  enough  of  the 
harrowing  details ! Yet  the  worst  is  still  to  be  heard.  All  the  endless 
night  through  things  kept  dropping  down  upon  the  sleepers  from 
the  wall  above.  To  my  unromantic  mind  these  were  bits  of  twigs 
and  leaves,  yet  in  the  subtle  silence  of  the  tropical  night  small  wonder 

478 


A FORGOTTEN  CITY  OF  THE  ANDES 


each  was  a possible  sudden-death  to  the  sufferer  within  the  sleeping- 
bag,  assuring  himself  a thousand  times  that  no  viper  could  bite  through 
it,  yet  lacking  faith  in  his  own  assurance.  The  most  anguishing 
moment  of  all  was  that  when  there  dropped  squarely  upon  him,  with 
a soft,  reptile-like  thud,  something  that  proved  by  daylight  that  he 
had  hung  carelessly  in  the  Incaic  niche  above  one  of  his  woolen  socks! 

The  descent  was  harder  than  the  climb ; also  it  was  quicker.  So 
slippery  was  the  wet  trail  at  that  angle  that  whenever  our  heels  failed 
to  bite  into  the  soil  we  sat  down  emphatically  on  the  backs  of  our  necks 
some  feet  further  down  the  slope,  fetching  it  a resounding  wallop 
with  the  rest  of  the  body.  There  is  talk  of  some  day  building  an 
electric  line  from  Cuzco,  and  a funicular  up  to  the  ruins,  with  perhaps 
a tourist  hotel  among  them.  Fortunately  talk  does  not  easily  breed 
action  in  Peru.  One  of  the  chief  charms  of  Machu  Picchu  is  inherent 
in  the  difficulty  of  reaching  it ; a scene  once  made  accessible  to  fat, 
middle-aged  ladies  is  ready  to  be  marked  off  the  traveler’s  itinerary 
and  to  be  turned  over  to  the  tender  mercies  of  the  tourist. 

We  ended  the  descent  without  broken  bones,  though  not  without 
shattered  tempers,  and  finding  the  precarious  connection  with  the  outer 
world  still  sagging  between  the  roaring  boulders,  climbed  the  wet 
jungled  bank  beyond.  Here  Ruminaui,  in  addition  to  his  regular 
government  wage  of  twenty  cents,  was  rewarded  with  a shilling  and 
a handful  of  coca-leaves,  only  the  latter  seeming  to  be  of  any  interest 
to  him ; and  here,  strangely  enough,  Tomas  was  waiting,  as  he  had  been 
ordered,  with  the  four  animals,  their  heads  turned  toward  Cuzco. 


479 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


THE  COLLASUYU,  OR  “ UPPER  ” PERU 

ON  November  nth  I took  train  southward.  Though  my 
original  plan  of  following  the  Inca  highway  from  Quito  to 
Cuzco  had -been  accomplished,  the  thought  of  turning  home- 
ward with  half  the  continent  still  unexplored  had  become  an  absurdity. 
But  the  scattered  life  of  that  dreary  region  to  the  south  of  the  Im- 
perial City  promised  too  little  of  new  interest  to  be  worth  covering 
on  foot.  If  I did  walk  down  to  the  station,  behind  my  belongings 
on  jogging  Indian  legs,  it  was  because  to  have  waited  for  the  nine 
o’clock  mule-car  would  probably  have  been  to  miss  the  nine-thirty 
train. 

Cuzco,  like  its  rival  to  the  north,  has  been  connected  by  rail  with 
the  outside  world  since  1908.  The  train  leaves  on  Tuesdays  and  Satur- 
days, spending  a night  at  Sicuani  and  another  at  Juliaca,  whence  a 
branch  descends  to  Arequipa.  Every  Friday  there  is  a vertiginous 
“ express  ” that  makes  Puno  in  one  day. 

A fertile  valley,  the  great  bolson,  or  mountain  pocket,  that  stretches 
from  the  pampa  of  Anta  in  the  north  to  Urcos  on  the  south,  with 
many  grazing  cattle,  frequent  villages,  and  strings  of  laden  Indians 
and  asses,  rolled  slowly  past.  Before  noon  we  caught  the  gorge  of 
the  muddy  Vilcanota,  the  same  stream  that  under  the  name  of  Uru- 
bamba  encircles  Machu  Picchu,  with  little  patch-farms  far  up  the 
face  of  the  enclosing  ranges  and  here  and  there  steep,  narrow  side 
valleys  rich  with  cultivation.  Yet  cultivatable  ground  was  scarce,  so 
scarce  that  it  was  easy  to  understand  why  the  ancient  population  spared 
as  much  of  it  as  possible  by  walling  up  their  dead  in  caves  and  planting 
all  but  perpendicular  slopes. 

Next  day  the  valley  rose  gradually,  until  cultivation  gave  way  com- 
pletely to  cattle  and  sheep,  then  to  llama  and  alpaca  herds  grazing 
on  the  tough  ichu  of  broad  punas  stretching  to  arid  foothills  that,  in 
turn,  rolled  up  into  a great  snow-clad  range  on  our  left.  An  aggres- 
sive, despairing  aridity,  rarely  touched  with  a cheering  note  of  green, 
spread  in  every  direction.  A dreary  land  indeed  would  this  have  been 

480 


THE  COLLASUYU,  OR  “UPPER”  PERU 


to  journey  through  afoot.  Small  wonder  the  race  accustomed  always 
to  this  desolate  landscape  is  of  melancholy  temperament,  given  to 
personifying  nature  as  a host  of  evil  spirits  inimical  to  man. 

The  drear  and  barren  land  across  which  lay  the  branch  line  of  the 
third  day  rolled  ever  higher  to  the  Crucero  Alto  at  14,666  feet.  Two 
large  lakes,  cold,  steely-blue  in  tint,  with  a few  barren  islands,  broke 
upon  the  scene  and  sank  slowly  as  we  panted  upward ; patches  of 
snow  lay  above,  around,  and  then  below  us ; the  glare  of  the  arid,  sun- 
flooded  landscape  grew  painful  to  the  eyes,  recalling  that  many  an 
Andean  traveler  holds  colored  glasses  an  indispensable  part  of  his 
equipment.  Towns  there  were  none;  and  the  stations  consisted  of 
one  or  two  wind-threshed  buildings  of  stone  or  sheet-iron,  dismal 
beyond  conception. 

Then  we  descended  gradually.  Here  and  there  in  the  edge  of  reedy 
lagoons  stood  parihuanas, — long-legged,  rose-tinted  birds  the  feathers 
of  which  in  olden  days  formed  the  Inca’s  head-dress,  when  capital  pun- 
ishment was  meted  out  to  anyone  of  lesser  rank  who  dared  decorate 
himself  with  them.  Equally  sacred  were  the  vicunas,  the  undomesti- 
cated species  of  the  llama  family  that  furnished  the  imperial  ermine. 
Ordinarily  the  traveler  is  fortunate  to  catch  sight  from  the  train  of 
one  or  two  of  those  timid  animals.  To-day  a group  of  fourteen  ap- 
peared not  five  hundred  yards  away  across  the  pampa ; then  within  an 
hour  we  passed  close  by  flocks  of  nine,  twelve,  seven,  and  eight  re- 
spectively, a total  of  fifty,  more  than  my  Peruvian  seat-companion, 
who  crossed  this  line  several  times  a year,  had  seen  in  all  his  life. 
Unlike  the  three  domesticated  species,  llama,  alpaca,  and  guanaco,  the 
vicunas  are  uniform  in  color,  a reddish-brown  with  whitish  belly, 
legs,  and  tail,  not  unlike  a fawn  in  general  appearance.  A more  deli- 
cate animal  could  scarcely  be  imagined ; the  neck  seemed  hardly  larger 
than  a man’s  wrist,  the  legs  fragile  in  their  slender  daintiness.  They 
were  graceful,  as  well  as  swift,  even  in  their  running,  which  resembled 
the  gait  of  the  jack-rabbit  in  the  way  they  brought  front  and  hind 
legs  together.  The  flocks  still  belong  to  the  government  as  in  the 
days  of  the  Incas,  when  they  were  protected  by  royal  edict,  under 
penalty  of  death.  For  some  ten  years  past  Peruvian  law,  too,  has 
forbidden  killing  them,  but  the  valuable  wool  and  skins  are  still  to  be 
had  in  the  larger  cities,  for  game-wardens  are  conspicuous  by  their 
absence. 

What  seemed  a hopeless  desert  thinly  covered  with  dry,  wiry  bunch- 
grass,  now  spread  in  all  directions.  We  were  crossing  the  vast 

481 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


“ Pampa  de  Arguelles,”  so  named  from  the  family  that  has  leased 
hundreds  of  square  miles  of  it  from  the  government.  They  in  turn 
grant  the  Indians  permission  to  graze  their  cattle, — at  25  cents  a year 
for  larger  animals,  twice  that  for  each  flock  of  small  ones;  yet  “ los 
Arguelles  derive  income  sufficient  to  permit  the  family  to  live  on  the 
fat  of  Paris.  Mirages,  as  of  rivers  flowing  landward,  appeared  now 
and  then  across  the  arid  immensity.  At  stations  lay  piled  great  heaps 
of  yarlta,  a fuel  resembling  a cross  between  peat  and  giant  mushrooms. 
Further  down,  a scraggly  bush  was  cut  for  the  same  purpose  and  car- 
ried in  bundles  on  donkeys’  backs.  Soon  that  dreary  Sahara  of  the 
West  Coast  lay  on  every  hand,  massive  rocks  piled  up  fantastically, 
monotonous  to  the  last  degree,  yet  not  without  a certain  striking  beauty 
under  some  moods.  The  landscape  was  what  the  Germans  call 
eintonig,  of  a rich  yellow-brown,  dusted  by  the  winds  and  bleached  by 
the  suns  of  centuries,  and  spreading  away  to  infinity  with  a hint  of  the 
vastness  of  the  earth  which  even  the  sea  does  not  give. 

Suddenly  a deep-green  patch  of  alfalfa  burst  out  among  the  glaring 
rocks,  trebling  their  barrenness  by  contrast.  It  was  the  little  oasis  of 
Yura,  fed  by  a small  stream,  the  water  of  which,  reputed  efficacious 
to  disordered  livers,  is  bottled  and  sold  — less  widely  to-day  than 
before  the  priests,  whose  rival  establishment  produces  the  “ Water 
of  Jesus,”  threatened  to  blackball  out  of  heaven  anyone  who  drank 
the  other.  Then  far  away  across  the  Egypt-tinted  world  the  eye  made 
out  well  below,  at  first  dimly,  a green  oasis  with  a great,  or  at  least 
a widespread,  city  covering  about  half  of  it.  “ Ari,  quepay  ! ” (“  Yes, 

let  us  stay  a while!”)  the  first  settlers  are  said  to  have  cried  when 
they  caught  sight  of  this  garden  spot;  and  the  train  seemed  like- 
minded,  setting  us  down  at  last  in  Arequipa,  second  city  of  Peru. 
Three  dawdling  days  had  been  required  to  cover  412  miles. 

The  only  place  of  importance  between  the  Pacific  and  Titicaca  is 
strikingly  oriental  in  atmosphere,  with  a suggestion  of  Cairo,  thanks 
to  its  shuffling  donkeys  — a hole  is  slit  in  their  nostrils  that  they 
may  more  easily  breathe  this  highland  air  — and  its  encircling  desert, 
yet  exceeding  the  latter  in  beauty  by  reason  of  the  snowclads  hovering 
about  it.  To  the  north  lies  Chachani,  fantastic  with  its  peaks  and 
pinnacles  and  jagged  ice-fields;  nearer  at  hand  stands  hoar-headed 
Misti,  rivalled  in  symmetry  of  form  only  by  Fujiyama  and  Cotapaxi. 
From  any  second-story  roof  the  arid,  yellow  sand  stretches  away  as 
from  the  summit  of  the  pyramids  to  a horizon  far  more  broken  and 
tumbled  than  that  of  the  Sahara.  The  hills  are  streaked  with  what 

482 


THE  COLLASUYU,  OR  “UPPER”  PERU 

looks  like  snow,  but  is  really  fine  sand,  the  same  sand  that  lies  in  waves 
monotonously  multiplied  in  the  form  of  wandering,  crescent-shaped 
medanos  nearer  the  coast,  whence  quantities  of  it  are  shipped  to  Europe 
to  make  a cheap  glass.  Down  below  and  round  about  the  city  are  fat 
cattle  knee-deep  in  green  pastures,  in  an  oasis  where  irrigation  pro- 
duces alfalfa,  as  well  as  many  fruits,  in  abundance.  The  desert  air 
is  clear  beyond  words,  bringing  the  newcomer  from  the  bleak  high- 
lands above  the  impression  that  summer,  an  unoppressive  midsummer 
of  the  North,  has  suddenly  come  again.  Every  evening  wonderful  sun- 
sets, ranging  from  lurid  pink  through  purple  and  blue-gray  to  a vel- 
vety fading  slate,  play  a veritable  symphony  of  color  across  the  sur- 
rounding desert  world. 

The  city  itself  is  flat,  of  one,  or  at  most  two  stories,  always  with 
the  bulking  mass  of  Misti  or  its  neighbors  behind  it.  Earthquakes 
have  been  frequent  in  Arequipa.  Because  of  these  visitations,  per- 
haps, the  town  has  everywhere  an  unfinished  appearance,  most  build- 
ings ceasing  abruptly  just  above  the  first  story  and  looking  as  if  the 
rest  had  been  shaken  off  or  suddenly  abandoned.  A few  have  ven- 
tured to  crawl  up  again  to  two  stories,  and  here  and  there  a bold 
adventurer  to  three,  these  latter,  commonly  of  sheet-iron,  seeming 
constantly  to  tremble  at  their  own  temerity.  As  in  Lima  and  the  lands 
of  the  Arab,  the  roofs  are  flat,  places  of  promenade  and  evening 
tertulias;  for  rain  falls,  if  at  all,  only  in  brief  afternoon  showers. 
The  town  is  built  largely  of  a soft  white  stone,  almost  chalk  in  com- 
position, and  light  in  weight  as  terra-cotta,  which  is  chopped  or  sawed 
out  of  a desert  quarry  not  far  away  and  which,  though  it  hardens  in 
the  air,  can  still  be  carved  with  a knife.  Two  arched  bridges  with 
massive  piers,  mildly  suggesting  those  by  which  one  enters  Toledo  in 
Spain,  span  the  little  cliff-sided  Chili.  The  eucalyptus  seems  less  at 
home  here  than  in  the  higher  cities  of  the  Sierra,  but  drooping  willows 
abound.  As  everywhere  on  the  West  Coast  of  Peru,  massive  mud 
fences  afford  places  of  promenade  in  the  outskirts. 

I was  treading  close  on  the  heels  of  civilization  of  a material  sort. 
Electric  street-cars  had  appeared  in  Arequipa  a bare  three  months 
before ; with  motormen  imported  from  Lima  they  afforded  an  efficient 
service  to  nearly  every  corner  of  the  oasis.  The  innovation  had  not 
been  without  its  difficulties.  Strolling  one  morning,  I met  three  cholos 
driving  a dozen  donkeys  marketward.  Suddenly  they  began  to  shout 
and  dance  about  the  animals  as  if  some  danger  were  imminent.  A 
block  away  sounded  the  gong  of  a bright  new  tramcar,  but  as  I 

483 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


had  never  known  one,  least  of  all  in  South  America,  deliberately 
to  run  down  an  animal,  I wondered  at  the  uproar.  To  my  surprise 
the  car  came  on  without  slackening  speed.  The  shrieking  cholos  suc- 
ceeded in  hauling,  pushing,  or  coaxing  most  of  the  stubborn  brutes 
off  the  line,  but  one  pair  refused  to  vary  their  set  course.  At  the 
last  moment  one  of  these  lost  courage  and  side-stepped,  but  his  sturdy 
black  companion  kept  serenely  on,  with  stubborn  down-hung  ears  and 
a “ to-hell-with-you  ” flip  of  the  tail  — and  just  then  a corner  of  the 
swiftly  moving  car  caught  him  on  the  starboard  beam.  He  turned 
a complete  somersault  on  the  cobbles,  rolled  on  to  his  feet,  and 
gazed  after  the  still  speeding  car  with  a scowl  not  unmixed  with  a 
ludicrous  expression  of  astonishment.  Later  I learned  from  the 
American  manager  of  the  line  that  a number  of  donkeys,  burritos, 
and  dogs  had  been  killed  during  the  first  month  of  operation.  De- 
crees and  warnings  had  been  utterly  wasted,  and  Arequipa’s  donkeys 
would  have  stagnated  the  lines  and  again  taken  possession  of  the 
gait  of  life  without  this  resort  to  the  teaching  of  experience. 

Cuzco  and  Arequipa  are  reputed  the  Peruvian  strongholds  of  con- 
servatism. Of  the  two,  the  latter  is  probably  more  deeply  under  the 
spell  of  the  ancient  church.  The  din  of  bells  was  almost  constant; 
during  my  week  in  the  city  I saw  no  fewer  than  five  images  of  the 
Virgin  paraded  through  the  streets  to  the  usual  accompaniment  of 
kneeling  cholos,  bareheaded  whites,  and  scores  of  sanctimonious-faced 
old  beatas  following  with  funereal  step.  Several  of  Arequipa’s  fiestas 
are  noted  for  the  dancing  of  wooden  saints  to  barbaric  music  in  the 
public  squares.  Others  have  fixed  periods  of  calling  on  their  fellows, 
sallying  forth  from  their  home  churches  to  the  plaza  where,  manipu- 
lated by  the  cholo  bearers  beneath,  they  bow  to  and  finally  “ kiss  ” 
each  other,  to  the  fanatical  applause  of  the  multitude.  The  town 
boasts  also  several  crucified  figures  operated  by  wires  that  cause  the 
eyes  to  roll,  the  limbs  to  quiver,  and  the  head  finally  to  droop  as 
in  death,  after  which  a gang  of  workmen,  carrying  towels  over  their 
arms  to  wipe  away  the  “ blood,”  climb  up  to  remove  the  nails  and 
lay  the  “ body  of  Jesus  ” away  in  a glass  coffin  until  the  next  holy  day. 

From  a score  of  stories  typical  of  Arequipa  with  which  I was 
favored  by  a fellow-countryman,  who  had  spent  many  years  as  the 
alpaca  expert  of  the  chief  local  warehouse,  I pass  on  two.  For  months 
he  and  his  wife  had  been  annoyed  by  the  throngs  of  beggars  who 
gathered  for  a bowl  of  soup  each  noon  at  the  monastery  just  across 
the  narrow  street  from  his  residence,  and  then  slept  out  the  day  in 

484 


° -5 
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a 


THE  COLLASUYU,  OR  “UPPER”  PERU 


the  sandy  hollows  nearby,  like  the  dogs  of  Constantinople.  What  par- 
ticularly aroused  his  ire  were  the  habits  of  an  old  fellow  of  ninety  or 
so,  whom  he  had  known  for  years.  A few  weeks  before,  finding  him 
in  the  all  too  scanty  remnants  of  what  had  once  been  shirt  and  trousers, 
the  American  had  smuggled  him  into  his  workshop  and  given  him  a 
complete  new  outfit  from  his  own  wardrobe.  The  mendicant  returned 
to  his  customary  hollow  a hundred  yards  up  the  street,  which  he  was 
accustomed  to  share  with  several  curs  and  a donkey  or  two,  and 
during  the  night  his  fellow-beggars  robbed  him  of  the  new  garments. 
What,  then,  was  the  donor’s  surprise  and  American  disgust  when  he  set 
out  on  his  early  stroll  next  morning  to  find  the  old  fellow  parading  up 
and  down  the  street,  begging  of  the  women  bound  for  mass  in  the 
monastery  church  “ without  a lickin’  stitch  on  him,  as  naked  as  the 
day  he  was  born.  If  you ’d  tell  it  in  the  States,  they ’d  say  you 
was  lyin’  and  that  he  must  have  had  a shirt  an’  britches  on  anyway. 
But,  no,  sir,  just  as  I ’m  telling  you,  without  a lickin’  stitch,  an’ 
parading  his  wrinkled  old  ninety-year  carcass  up  an’  down  amongst  all 
them  women  goin’  to  mass.” 

But  the  ladies  seemed  merely  to  be  mildly  amused,  and  the  native 
policeman  saw  nothing  in  the  sight  worthy  of  comment.  Children 
now  and  then  roam  the  streets  of  Arequipa  in  their  birthday  clothes, 
and  the  old  fellow  had  long  since  been  in  his  second  childhood.  My 
outraged  fellow-countryman  went  across  town  to  make  complaint  to 
his  friend,  the  prefect.  The  latter  did  not  see  what  he  could  do 
about  it. 

“ Why  don’t  you  send  him  to  the  hospital  ? ” grumbled  the  alpaca- 
expert. 

“ They  would  n’t  receive  him,  with  no  one  to  pay  for  his  keep.” 

“ Well,  sir,  I could  n’t  stand  it  no  longer  having  that  ol’  feller 
paradin’  around  before  my  house,  with  my  wife  inside  an’  all  of  them 
women  folks  goin’  to  mass,  as  naked  as  the  day  he  was  born.  So 
next  momin’  I borrowed  a stretcher  an’  got  four  Indians,  an’  I says, 
‘ Now  you  git  that  ol’  feller  on  that  stretcher  an’  tie  him  down  an’ 
carry  him  over  to  the  hospital  an’  leave  him  inside,  or  dump  him  in 
the  river  or  anything  you  like,  only  so ’s  you  git  him  out  of  here.  An’ 
I ’ve  got  a phone  an’  when  I hear  he ’s  inside  the  hospital  I ’ll  give 
you  each  a sol.’  Well,  sir,  them  Indians  just  dumped  him  in  the 
hospital  payteeo  before  the  Sisters  of  Mercy  could  shut  the  gates,  an’ 
they  had  to  keep  him. 

“ I ’ve  got  a lot  of  friends  amongst  them  priests  across  the  road, 

485 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 

even  if  I ain’t  a Catholic,”  he  went  on,  “an’  they’re  a pretty  nice 
lot  o’  fellers,  take  ’em  all  in  all.  They ’s  three  kinds  of  ’em : the 
brown  priests,  the  black  priests,  an’  the  white  priests  ” (Franciscans, 
Dominicans,  and  Mercedarias).  One  especial,  by  the  name  of  Jay- 
zoose, has  been  over  here  in  my  house  off  an’  on  for  fifteen  years  to 
ask  for  a chicken  or  some  eggs,  or  a few  dollars  to  build  a new  altar, 
or  to  have  a few  drinks — Oh,  they  ’re  a pretty  decent  lot  o’  fellers, 
an’  of  course  they’ve  got  to  live  somehow.  Well,  Jayzoose — he’s 
livin’  with  a woman  over  there  behind  the  monastery  wall  an’  got 
four  or  five  kids ; but  then  of  course  they  all  do  that  in  Peru,  though 
I suppose  the  Catholics  up  in  the  States  would  n’t  believe  you  if  you 
told  ’em,  but  of  course  you  ’n  me  or  anybody  that ’s  been  down  here 
— well,  Jayzoose  come  over  the  other  day  an’  says  he  wants  me  to 
come  an’  hear  him  preach.  So  I went  out  to  a church  over  here  on 
the  edge  of  town  an’  I tell  you  he  preached  a mighty  strong  sermon, 
too.  Only  it  was  All  Saints’  Day  an’  of  course  everybody  was  drunk. 
So  I was  layin’  here  readin’  along  in  the  afternoon,  when  I heard 
somebody  knock  at  the  street  door  — or  if  I happened  to  be  asleep 
an’  did  n’t,  Theodore  Roosevelt  ” (pointing  to  a cross  between  a 
Dachshund  and  a pug  curled  up  at  his  feet)  “ here,  or  Woody  Wil- 
son ” (an  Irish  terrier)  “ there  did,  for  they  always  hear  anybody  that 
knocks,  no  matter  if  it’s  midnight  — an’  I went  to  the  door  an’  there 
was  Jayzoose,  an’  he  was  pickled  to  the  eyes.  So  I invited  him  in, 
an’  he  says,  ‘Why  don’t  you  give  me  something  to  drink?’  An’  I 
says,  ‘ Well,  Jayzoose,  I ain’t  got  anything  in  the  house  just  now, 
but  I ’ll  send  out  an’  get  something.  An’  I sent  out  an'  got  two  bottles 
of  beer.  But  Jayzoose  was  that  drunk  he  couldn’t  sit  up,  say  nothin’ 
of  stand  up,  an’  when  the  beer  come  he  got  to  rollin’  around  an’  out 
of  his  pocket  drops  a big  loaded  revolver.  I picked  it  up  an’  says, 
‘ Here,  I ’m  goin’  to  keep  this  gun  fer  you.  What  are  you  goin’  to 
do  with  a gun  anyway?’  An’  Jayzoose  says,  ‘ I ’m  goin’  to  kill  that 
there  Chilian  blacksmith  down  the  street,  because  he  don’t  go  to  mass 
an’  says  he  don’t  believe  in  the  Holy  Church  an’  its  miracles ; an’  if 
I’d  a had  a couple  of  drinks  more,  I’d  a killed  him  las’  night.’  An’ 
I says,  ‘ No,  you  don’t  want  to  kill  that  feller,  Jayzoose,  an’  I ’ll  keep 
this  gun  fer  you  until  to-morrow,’ — an’  I got  up  to  help  him  home, 
an’  when  I opened  the  street  door,  in  tumbles  a woman  that  had 
been  leanin’  up  against  it  — being  All  Saints’  Day  — an’  just  fell  down 
into  the  parlor  here ; an’  by  the  time  I rolled  her  out  again  an’  got 
Jayzoose  home  I was  sweatin’  some,  I can  tell  you.” 

486 


THE  COLLASUYU,  OR  “ UPPER  ” PERU 


I strolled  out  one  afternoon  in  a leisurely  hour  from  the  central 
plaza  by  a street  growing  ever  rougher  and  less  cobbled  to  the  Harvard 
Observatory  on  the  flank  of  Misti,  with  a splendid  view  of  the  snow- 
capped cone  towering  into  the  sky  close  beside  it  and  a marvelous 
outlook  over  all  the  oasis  of  Arequipa.  Here,  in  a household  where 
it  was  easy  to  fancy  myself  suddenly  set  back  in  the  heart  of  my 
own  land,  American  scientists  photograph  the  heavens  on  large  dry- 
plates,  with  exposures  of  from  one  to  eight  hours,  through  telescopes 
automatically  regulated  to  the  speed  of  the  earth,  but  requiring  also 
constant  hand  adjustment.  Arequipa,  however,  is  growing  less  ideal 
for  the  purpose,  since  the  number  of  its  cloudy  days  has  more  than 
doubled.  The  blood-red  sun  was  sinking  behind  the  Sahara  hills 
when  I turned  homeward  through  the  caressing  air  of  evening,  the 
desert  flanks  of  Misti  and  Chachani  and  Pichapichu  glowing  a velvety 
red  from  the  reflection  of  the  opposite  horizon,  the  white  oriental 
city  growing  dimmer  and  dimmer,  then  suddenly  bursting  out  in  a 
spray  of  electric  lights  above  which  the  two  white  spires  of  the  cathe- 
dral more  than  ever  resembled  minarets. 

Next  day  I returned  to  the  highlands  in  the  private  car  of  the 
railway  superintendent,  a fellow-countryman.  The  day  was  brilliant, 
the  leprous  desert  flashing  in  the  sun  even  after  it  had  given  way  to 
the  ichu-brown  tablelands  of  the  great  plateau,  Misti  bulking  as  large  a 
hundred  kilometers  away  as  out  at  the  observatory  on  her  flanks,  and 
snow-caps  springing  up  into  the  luminous  sky  about  us  to  all  points 
of  the  compass.  All  the  afternoon  we  loafed  in  cushioned  armchairs 
facing  the  back  platform,  on  which  sat  our  host  shooting  with  auto- 
matic gun-pistol  at  vicunas,  a pastime  strictly  against  the  law,  but 
Peruvian  statutes  scarcely  reach  the  altitude  of  a railway  superintend- 
ent. Fortunately  the  animals  were  scarce  and  far  away,  and  the  near- 
est he  came  to  breaking  the  law  was  to  raise  the  desert  dust  about  them 
and  send  them  scampering  across  the  rolling  pampa  at  a lope  between 
that  of  jack-rabbit  and  a deer,  sparing  us  the  necessity  o^  halting  the 
train  and  sending  out  the  crew  to  bring  in  the  game.  From  Juliaca 
we  turned  south  along  a flat  once-lake-bottom.  Arms  and  branches  of 
Titicaca,  full  of  shivering  reeds,  broke  in  upon  the  dusk  that  thickened 
into  night  just  as  we  pulled  into  Puno,  cold,  dreary,  and  monotonously 
like  all  other  towns  of  the  high  Sierra. 

I had  timed  my  arrival  to  take,  instead  of  the  regular  steamer  directly 
across  the  lake,  the  semi-monthly  “ Yapura  ” that  makes  the  round  of 
its  shore,  with  many  stops.  We  were  off  at  ten  and  out  upon  the 

487 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


“ open  sea  ” by  midnight,  a huge  distorted  moon  rising  off  the  star- 
board bow,  into  the  prismatic  wake  of  which  we  wheezed  slowly  but 
steadily,  until  it  crawled  up  under  the  black  skirts  of  the  clouds  that 
covered  the  edges  of  an  otherwise  starlit  sky.  A wind  as  penetrating 
as  that  off  Cape  Race  caused  our  diminutive  craft  to  roll  and  plunge 
merrily,  to  the  distress  of  the  priest,  lawyer,  and  home-made  Ph.D., 
with  whom  I shared  the  six-by-eight  dining-room-cabin.  Titicaca  by 
day-light  has  the  identical  color  of  the  sea  itself,  and  we  awoke  to  find 
ourselves  wheezing  along  in  mid-ocean,  so  to  speak,  at  eighteen  knots 
— every  two  or  three  hours.  We  cast  anchor  first  before  the  red 
town  of  Juli,  in  a lap  of  bare  hills  sloping  up  from  the  steel-blue 
lake.  I dropped  on  top  of  the  first  boatload  of  cargo  and  went 
ashore,  the  captain,  having  orders  not  to  start  without  me,  promising 
to  blow  a special  signal.  The  Jesuits  claim  to  have  set  up  in  Juli  the 
first  printing-press  in  America,  and  here  Quichua  was  first  reduced 
to  writing.  To-day  it  is  a mere  dawdling  village,  distinguished  by 
the  voluminous  Dutchman  breeches  of  its  Indians.  At  noon  Pomata 
held  us  long  enough  to  unload  the  priest  and  a few  boxes  and  bales 
at  the  usual  cobblestone  wharf.  This  same  good  padre  had  assured 
me  that  it  was  a well-known  fact  that  Saint  Thomas  had  visited 
America  before  the  Conquest  and  had  brought  the  Indians  their  civil- 
ization, being  known  to  them  as  “Tomi” — a bit  familiar,  to  say  the 
least.  How  persistently  mankind  seeks  to  rob  poor  old  Columbus  of 
his  glory! 

In  the  afternoon  we  churned  into  a wide,  semi-circular  bay  as  far 
as  shallow  water  and  rustling  reeds  permitted,  and  I was  soon  climbing 
the  easy  slope  to  Yunguyo.  Here  and  there  was  much  freight  to  dis- 
charge. When  I expressed  my  surprise  at  the  consumptive  powers  of 
so  small  a town,  the  captain  winked  an  Irish-Peruvian  eye  and  breathed, 
rather  than  murmured,  “ contrabando.”  I had  come  at  last  to  the  end 
of  endless  Peru,  with  the  unexpected  privilege  of  walking  out  of  it, 
as  I had  entered  it  eight  months  before.  Yunguyo  lies  on  the  neck 
of  a little  peninsula,  part  of  which,  by  the  arbitrariness  of  interna- 
tional frontiers,  is  Bolivian.  The  steamer  had  orders  to  pick  me  up 
in  the  morning,  and  slipping  on  kodak  and  revolver,  I struck  out 
for  the  sacred  city  of  Copacabana.  A league  from  the  landing  the 
road  mounted  a stony  ridge,  passed  through  the  two  arches  of  an 
uninhabited  rural  chapel,  and  left  the  historical,  if  sometimes  pro- 
fanity-provoking, land  of  Peru  forever  behind. 

To  that  day  I had  never,  to  my  knowledge,  met  a Bolivian.  Those 

488 


THE  COLLASUYU,  OR  “ UPPER  ” PERU 

born  beyond  the  boundary  evidently  kept  the  fact  a profound  secret, 
and  in  Peru  the  silence  about  the  adjoining  land  was  as  if  it  were  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  earth.  Once  in  Bolivia  it  was  as  rare  to 
hear  anything  of  Peru.  It  was  a stony  country,  in  fact  there  were 
more  stones  than  country.  Everywhere  they  lay  piled  up  in  high  mas- 
sive fences  with  half-tillable  patches  between  them.  The  wide  road 
was  well-peopled  with  Indians  afoot,  Indians  darker  and  of  more  inde- 
pendent mien  than  those  of  Cuzco.  This  was  the  route  by  which, 
according  to  tradition,  Manco  Ccapac  set  out  from  the  island  of  Titi- 
caca to  found  the  Inca  Empire.  The  countrymen  were  engaged  in  a 
sort  of  planting  and  plowing  bee,  a half-drunken  festival,  their  hatbands 
decorated  with  newly  picked  flowers.  The  instant  I passed  the  bound- 
ary the  head-dress  of  the  women  changed  to  an  ugly,  round,  narrow- 
brimmed  felt  hat  hitherto  unknown.  On  the  Peruvian  side  the  shores 
of  the  lake  had  been  reedy  and  shallow,  lisping  with  water-birds  and  a 
melancholy  wind  from  off  Titicaca,  as  if  the  sea  were  thinking  sadly  of 
its  lost  glory.  But  as  I topped  the  ridge  of  the  peninsula,  there  opened 
suddenly  before  me  the  vast  steely-blue  lake,  as  clear-cut  against  the 
base  of  the  reddish-brown  hills  as  if  dug  with  some  gigantic  spade, 
rolling  away  in  one  direction  over  the  horizon  like  an  Atlantic,  the 
velvet-brown  island  of  Titicaca  standing  forth  in  the  middle  distance 
sharp  as  an  etching.  Rocks,  which  the  superstitious  Indians  fancy 
are  impious  men  turned  to  stone,  stood  forth  on  every  hand.  Children 
along  the  way  addressed  me  as  “ tata,”  the  Aymara  version  of  the 
Quichua  “ tayta  ” (father). 

At  the  end  of  a five-mile  stroll  the  stony  highway  broke  forth  into 
a little  lake-side  town.  The  church  and  monastery  sacred  to  Our 
Lady  of  Copacabana,  roofed  with  glistening  green  and  yellow  tiles,  in 
a square  surrounded  by  heavy  walls  brilliant  with  the  crimson  dor 
del  Inca,  nestles  in  a lap  of  rocky  hills  a bit  back  from  the  lake  and 
bulks  high  above  the  haunts  of  mere  men  at  its  feet.  In  the  days 
of  the  Incas  this  was  a holy  city,  with  a certain  “ idol  of  vast  renown 
among  the  Gentiles,”  a place  of  purification  whence  pilgrims  em- 
barked for  the  ultra-sacred  island  of  Titicaca.  The  church  militant 
would  not  have  been  itself  had  it  lost  this  opportunity  of  grafting  its 
own  superstitions  on  those  of  the  aboriginals,  and  some  three  cen- 
turies ago  the  present  “ Yirgen  de  Copacabana  ” was  set  up,  with  the 
usual  marvelous  tale  of  her  miraculous  appearance  in  this  spot.  Her 
servants  have  been  realizing  richly  on  their  foresight  ever  since.  A 
steady  stream  of  pilgrims  pours  into  the  holy  city  from  Peru,  as  well 

489 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


as  Bolivia,  and  even  from  further  off,  the  year  round,  though  August 
5 and  February  2 are  the  days  of  chief  festival  and  mightiest  crowds. 
Near  the  monastery  is  a large  hospicio,  a two-story  lodging-house  for 
pilgrims,  with  a great  rectangular  patio  opening  through  an  archway. 
In  the  town  roundabout  is  that  curious  atmosphere  of  a mixture  of 
piety  and  commercial  advantage  common  to  Rome,  Jerusalem,  Benares, 
and  Puree,  an  air  of  something  hard  to  believe,  yet  highly  advantageous 
to  accept,  at  least  outwardly.  The  costumes  of  the  populace  had 
grown  frankly  Bolivian.  In  several  of  the  shops  stocked  with  sacred 
baubles,  facing  the  immense  grass-grown  plaza,  women  were  rolling 
cigarettes,  new  proof  that  I was  in  Bolivia,  for  to  roll  a cigarette  in 
Peru  is  the  exclusive  privilege  of  the  government. 

The  priest  of  Pomata  had  given  me  a note  to  the  superior  of  the 
monastery.  A doorkeeper  led  me  into  pillared  cloisters  opening  on 
a flower-grown  patio  and  softly  into  the  sanctum  of  Father  Basoberri, 
deep  in  conversation  with  a parish  priest  who  had  brought  a flock  of 
pilgrims  from  a neighboring  town.  Being  a European,  he  created  a 
better  impression  than  the  average  native  churchman.  To  celebrate 
my  arrival  he  ordered  a servant  to  uncork  a bottle  of  imported  beer  and, 
after  the  first  formalities,  had  him  set  me  down  in  the  monastery  din- 
ing-room, where  an  excellent  meal  stopped  abruptly  short  of  dessert  and 
coffee.  The  superior  conducted  me  in  person  to  the  large  brick-and- 
tile  room  reserved  for  distinguished  guests,  opening  on  the  now  bitter- 
cold  expanse  of  Titicaca,  and  advised  me  to  fasten  the  padlock  and 
put  the  key  in  my  pocket,  “ for  though  we  are  here  in  a monastery, 
there  are  people  passing  back  and  forth,  and  it  is  safer.  Now,”  he 
went  on,  “ if  you  wish  to  see  the  customs  of  the  pilgrims,  you  have  only 
to  mount  that  stairway.” 

I climbed  two  stone  flights  in  semi-darkness  and  found  myself  in 
a narrow  wooden  gallery  at  the  back  of  a large,  high  chamber  suf- 
fused with  a “ dim  religious  light.”  It  was  painted  blue,  with  a 
sprinkling  of  golden  stars,  as  nearly  the  painter’s  vizualization  of 
heaven,  no  doubt,  as  the  crudity  of  his  workmanship  permitted  him  to 
express.  Confession  and  a contribution  to  the  attendant  priests  are 
requirements  for  admittance  to  the  floor  of  the  church  below.  At  the 
further  end  stood  the  gaudy  altar,  in  its  center  a glass-faced  alcove 
containing  the  far-famed  Virgin  of  Copacabana.  The  figure,  scarcely 
three  feet  high,  was  cumbered  with  several  rich  silk  gowns,  laden  with 
gold  and  jewels,  and  with  a blazing  golden  crown  many  sizes  too  large. 
Round-about  her  were  expanses  of  golden-starred  heavens,  and  half 

490 


THE  COLLASUYU,  OR  “ UPPER  ” PERU 


a hundred  of  what  looked  to  a layman  like  large  daggers  threatened 
her  from  all  sides.  The  original  blue-stone  idol  had  been  destroyed 
by  the  Spaniards,  the  present  incumbent  having  been  fashioned  in 
1582  by  Tito-Yupanqui,  lineal  descendant  of  the  Incas.  He  was  no 
artist,  but  was  said  to  have  been  inspired  by  the  Virgin  herself. 

The  place  was  unusually  immaculate  for  the  Andes,  as  becomes  a 
famous  shrine  where  money  pours  in  the  year  around,  and  was  in  strik- 
ing contrast  to  the  squalor  of  the  surrounding  region.  The  entire  floor 
below  was  crowded  with  kneeling  pilgrims,  weirdly  half-lighted  by 
candles,  except  around  the  altar,  where  there  was  light  enough  to  make 
priests,  acolytes,  and  the  Virgin  stand  out  brilliantly.  A week  is  the 
customary  length  of  stay  for  pilgrims,  with  a ceremony  of  welcome 
and  one  of  dismissal,  separated  by  a long  series  of  masses,  confessions 
and  purifications  — not  to  mention  the  ubiquitous  fees.  It  is  perfectly 
well-known  throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  Andes,  as  the 
priest  from  the  neighboring  town,  having  taken  me  in  hand  as  soon 
as  I appeared  in  the  gallery,  whispered  above  the  rumble  of  the  serv- 
ices, that  Nuestra  Senora  de  Copacabana  is  an  all-round  champion 
in  the  miracle  line.  For  instance : Hardly  a year  back  she  had  picked 

up  a ship  about  to  be  wrecked  on  the  coast  of  Chile  and  set  it  out  a 
thousand  miles  or  so  into  the  mill-pond  Pacific,  merely  because  one 
of  the  sailors  had  had  the  presence  of  mind  to  call  upon  her  at  the 
height  of  the  storm.  The  newspapers  of  the  time  seem  to  have  cov- 
ered the  service  poorly.  Or  there  was  the  case  of  the  Indian  in  my 
cicerone’s  own  parish  who,  working  in  his  field  far  up  the  side  of 
a mountain  sloping  swiftly  toward  Titicaca,  suddenly  fell  headlong 
down  the  precipice.  He  would  infallibly  have  been  dashed  to  pieces 
on  the  rocks  below,  had  he  not  suddenly,  halfway  down,  uttered  the 
name  of  the  Virgin  — personally  I never  knew  the  mind  of  an  Andean 
Indian  to  work  with  such  rapidity  — and  instantly  found  himself 
comfortably  seated  back  in  his  own  field  again.  The  fact  should  not 
be  lost  sight  of,  however,  in  rating  this  marvel  that  the  Aymara  hus- 
bandman cheers  on  his  labors  with  an  even  stronger  chicha  than  that 
of  his  Quichua  cousins  to  the  north. 

The  ceremony  we  were  now  witnessing  was  that  of  dismissing  the 
departing  pilgrims.  At  about  two-minute  intervals  there  knelt  on 
the  steps  of  the  altar  one  person,  a man  and  wife,  or  sometimes  a man, 
wife,  and  child,  always  of  the  same  family.  An  Indian  acolyte  in  red 
thrust  a lighted  candle  into  a hand  of  each,  the  chief  priest  bowed 
down  before  the  image,  while  back  beside  us  in  the  gallery  an  Indian 

491 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


in  a poncho  pumped  a wheezing  melodeon  and  the  choir,  consisting 
of  several  boys,  four  old  half-Indian  women  wrapped  to  the  ends  of 
their  noses  in  black  mantos,  and  three  merry  little  girls  who  managed 
to  keep  up  a constant  gossip  and  game  through  it  all,  knelt  on  the 
floor  about  the  instrument  and  moaned  weird  hymns.  If  the  pilgrim 
was  of  the  “ gente  decente  ” class,  the  hymn  was  in  Spanish;  if  an  In- 
dian, it  was  in  Aymara.  During  the  singing,  and  the  chanting  of  the 
priest,  another  acolyte  in  a still  more  striking  robe  stepped  forth  and 
covered  the  kneeling  person  or  persons  at  the  altar  with  what  looked 
like  a richly  embroidered  blanket.  This  the  priest  beside  me  asserted 
was  the  Virgin’s  cloak,  capable  of  protecting  from  all  evil,  for  a certain 
length  of  time  — varying,  perhaps,  with  the  fee. 

Then  suddenly  the  cloak  was  snatched  away,  the  candles  were 
jerked  out  of  the  hands  of  the  worshippers,  the  latter  were  all  but  bodily 
pushed  aside,  and  a priest  on  the  side-lines  called  out  the  next  name 
from  the  list  in  his  hands.  This  field-manager  was  startlingly  un- 
Bolivian  in  efficiency,  keeping  things  moving  with  a rush,  and  calling 
the  next  group  almost  before  the  acolyte  reached  for  the  blue 
blanket.  The  attitude  of  all  those  professionally  connected  with  the 
ceremony,  was  scornful,  careless,  and  hurried  — like  a New  York  bar- 
ber who  is  convinced  there  is  no  “ tip  ” coming.  The  fifth  group  to 
appear,  however,  was  less  cavalierly  treated.  A tall,  well-dressed 
man  stepped  forward,  and  an  acolyte  quickly  slipped  in  front  of  him  a 
prie-dien,  or  prayer-stool  with  high  back,  of  the  style  used  in  church 
by  well-to-do  South  American  women.  Then,  to  my  surprise,  two 
young  men  in  riding  breeches  and  leggings,  who  had  been  standing 
near  us  in  the  gallery,  stumbled  over  each  other  in  their  haste  to  get 
down  to  the  floor  below  and  kneel  on  either  side  of  the  older  man. 
“ Ese  caballero,”  whispered  the  priest  beside  me,  with  a distinct  tone 
of  pride  in  his  voice,  “ is  a famous  lawyer  and  ex-senator  from  La 
Paz,  and  those  are  his  two  sons.  They  are  great  devotees  of  the 
Blessed  Virgin  of  Copacabana.” 

When  the  cloak  had  been  laid  away  for  the  night,  the  chief  priest 
mounted  a pulpit  projecting  from  the  side-wall,  and  in  the  same  drawl 
in  which  he  ha4  chanted  at  the  altar,  compared  with  which  the  notorious 
American  nasal  twang  is  soft  and  songful,  either  preached  a sermon, 
or  recited  a bit  from  the  Bible,  or  imparted  some  stern  orders  from 
the  Pope  — which,  neither  I nor,  I am  certain,  any  other  hearer  not 
previously  informed  ever  guessed.  For  the  monotonous  drone  in 
which  he  hurried  through  the  thing,  like  a man  with  an  appointed 

492 


Sunrise  at  Copacabana,  the  sacred  city  of  Bolivia  on  the  shores  of  Titicaca 


THE  COLLASUYU,  OR  “UPPER”  PERU 


tryst,  was  such  that  during  the  full  twenty  minutes  it  lasted  I had  not 
the  faintest  notion  whether  it  was  in  Latin,  Spanish,  or  Aymara.  The 
only  intelligible  word  I caught  was  an  often-repeated,  slovenly  “ Co- 
pavan.”  Then  the  acolytes  hastily  snuffed  the  candles,  and  we  filed 
out.  At  the  foot  of  the  stairway  my  companion  was  fallen  upon  by 
an  old  Indian  and  his  son  who,  imprinting  a rapid-fire  of  kisses  on  his 
by  no  means  lily-white  hands,  begged  him  to  hear  them  confess.  He 
waved  them  aside  as  one  might  an  importunate  cur,  until  the  Indian, 
redoubling  his  osculations,  assured  him  he  had  real  coin  to  pay  for 
the  service,  whereupon  the  good  padre  took  courteous  leave  of  me 
and  led  the  pair  to  his  room  in  the  monastery. 

I was  hurrying  into  my  clothes  in  the  bitter  cold  Titicaca  dawn, 
when  the  faint  long-drawn  whistle  of  the  “ Yapura  ” was  borne  to  my 
ears.  To  my  astonishment  it  was  barely  five,  so  great  is  the  differ- 
ence in  the  hour  of  sunrise  in  the  few  degrees  I had  moved  south- 
ward since  leaving  Cuzco.  Copacabana  in  its  lap  of  terraced  hills 
shrunk  into  the  past  as  we  slipped  away  around  the  peninsula  of  the 
same  name.  Before  us  rose  the  Island  of  the  Sun,  traditional  cradle 
of  the  Inca  race,  yellow-brown  and  mountainous,  with  terraces  far 
up  some  of  its  rugged  valleys,  one  red-roofed  village  housing  the 
workmen  of  General  Pando,  chief  owner  of  the  island.  It  pro- 
duces potatoes,  maize,  and  quinoa.  On  the  mainland,  too,  all  the 
shores  were  terraced  and  cultivated  from  the  water’s  edge  to  the  tops 
of  the  ridges  and  hills,  in  long,  square,  rectangular,  or  such  fantastic 
shapes  of  fields  as  the  lay  of  the  land  required.  To  the  east  the  great 
glacier  mass  of  Sorata,  by  some  reputed  the  highest  peak  in  America, 
lay  piled  into  the  sky,  half-hidden  and  cut  off  from  the  solid  earth  by 
vast  banks  of  white  clouds.  Before  long  we  passed,  a bit  further  off, 
Coati,  the  Island  of  the  Moon,  a low  ridge  terraced  from  end  to  end, 
constituting  a single  hacienda  noted  for  its  fertility.  Mere  words 
give  but  a faint  notion  of  the  beauty  of  Titicaca  on  a brilliant  morn- 
ing, with  its  striking  combinations  of  soft  colors, — the  dense  blue-green 
of  the  lake,  curtained  by  tumbled  banks  of  snow-white  clouds,  the 
velvety  yellow-brown  islands  and  mainland,  with  the  faint-purple  cloud- 
shadows  playing  across  them.  The  mighty  glacier  bulk  of  Sorata 
piercing  the  sky  seemed  to  move  forward  also,  as  the  steamer  slipped 
lazily  on,  frequently  bringing  into  view  new  and  more  delicately  beau- 
tiful combinations  of  the  same  elements. 

The  Bolivian  mainland  we  drew  near  in  the  early  afternoon  was  of 
a reddish  soil,  with  many  patches  of  bright  green  and  pretty  little 

493 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


tilted  fields  checkering  the  ridges  clear  down  to  the  water’s  edge.  At 
Guaqui,  the  landing-place,  no  train  was  to  leave  for  twenty-four  hours, 
and  I set  out  afoot  across  the  exhilarating  plains  of  Bolivia  for  Tia- 
huanaco,  twelve  miles  away.  It  was  a fertile,  well-plowed  land,  where 
the  remaining  stubble  suggested  wheat  as  the  chief  product.  The  sun 
dropped  behind  a dense,  blue-black  bank  of  clouds  hanging  like  a pall 
over  Titicaca  behind,  and  there  was  no  sunset  when  the  time  for  it 
came,  but  only  a gradual,  steady  fading  of  light  to  a faint  gleam  in 
which  the  eyes  could  barely  make  out  the  ground  underfoot.  The 
evening  stillness  was  broken  only  by  the  rare  lowing  of  a cow  afar 
off ; a shower  that  was  half  hail  and  all  cold  beat  stingingly  into  my 
face.  But  for  the  storm  and  wind,  an  absolute  silence  lay  like  a solid 
wall  on  every  hand,  with  nowhere  the  suggestion  of  a light,  the  many 
clusters  of  Indian  huts  that  had  speckled  the  plain  by  day  seeming  to 
keep  disconfidently  out  of  reach  of  highway  and  railroad. 

At  eight  I stumbled  into  the  station  building  of  Tiahuanaco.  The 
telegraph  operator  was  sufficiently  impressed  by  my  familiarity  with 
the  name  of  the  gringo  superintendent  to  induce  the  woman  across 
the  track  to  serve  me  stale  bread  and  native  cheese,  and  tea  made  of 
the  water  of  Titicaca,  brought  here  in  locomotive  tanks.  On  the  table 
were  several  of  the  dailies  of  La  Paz  — it  was  difficult  to  think  of 
that  city  as  “ the  capital  ” after  eight  months  of  considering  Lima  the 
center  of  the  universe  — in  which  the  world’s  news  all  at  once  jumped 
up  to  date.  But  it  was  like  reading  a serial  story  of  which  one  has 
lost  several  chapters  and  finds  it  impossible  to  pick  up  all  the  threads 
again. 

Tiahuanaco,  12,900  feet  above  the  sea,  in  a broad,  open,  unpro- 
tected plain,  frigid  by  night,  and  not  over  warm  by  day  under  the 
chill  blue  of  its  highland  sky,  is  the  chief  archeological  enigma  of 
“ Alto-Peru.”  The  most  important  ruins  lie  a few  hundred  yards 
north  of  the  station,  and  an  equal  distance  from  the  modern  adobe 
town  with  its  bulking  stone  church.  From  a slight  rise  of  ground  the 
flat  plain,  sprinkled  with  many  clusters  of  mud  huts,  stretches  away  to 
a gouged  and  broken  ridge,  here  reddish,  there  green  with  vegetation, 
that  fences  it  in.  Huge  blocks  of  stone  lie  tumbled  and  scattered 
over  a vaster  extent  than  at  Luxor  and  Karnak,  in  a disarray  at  once 
suggesting  earthquake ; for  they  seem  too  immense  to  have  been  over- 
thrown by  a merely  human  destroying  vengeance.  In  the  region 
roughly  known  as  Peru  there  were  several  detached  and  separate 
civilizations,  some  of  which  clearly  antedated  the  Incas;  and  Tia- 

494 


THE  COLLASUYU,  OR  “ UPPER  ” PERU 


huanaco  has  little  in  common  with  the  ruins  further  north.  There 
the  relics  consist  almost  exclusively  of  stone  walls ; here  there  are 
virtually  none,  though  excavations  might  uncover  a few  remnants. 
What  is  left  looks,  in  contrast  to  the  stern  practicability  of  “ Inca  ’’ 
ruins,  like  the  caprice  of  some  childish  sovereign.  But  it  is  not  cer- 
tain how  justly  we  may  judge  of  the  whole  original  plan,  since  not 
only  the  neighboring  hamlet,  as  well  as  La  Paz,  has  helped  itself 
freely  to  the  materials  for  its  own  chief  buildings,  but  the  railroad  has 
carried  off  vast  quantities  of  it  for  the  construction  of  bridges  and 
culverts.  The  still  existing  monuments  are  chiefly  immense  stone 
blocks  too  great  to  be  moved  by  puny  modern  man,  some  still  upright, 
some  fallen.  Bas-reliefs,  of  which  Machu  Picchu  offers  none,  are 
numerous ; sculptured  figures  are  unknown  among  the  ruins  of  Peru, 
while  here  there  are  several.  Some  resemble  totem  poles  of  stone. 
The  most  striking  is  a sturdy  rock  god,  his  features  defaced  by  the 
revolver  shots  of  the  enlightened  youths  of  La  Paz  on  their  Sunday 
excursions,  which,  like  the  twin  figures  of  Thebes,  sits  abandoned  out 
on  the  plain.  The  monolithic  gateway,  a single  block  of  dark  gray 
stone  on  which  the  intricate  carving  and  bas-reliefs  still  stand  forth 
clear  yet  inscrutable,  has  been  set  together  again  since  Squier’s  day. 

As  I sat  gazing  across  the  disordered  mystery  of  long  ago,  an  In- 
dian woman,  the  ubiquitous  bundle  and  second  generation  on  her  back, 
a crude  sling  in  one  hand,  drove  her  pigs  out  into  what  seems  once  to 
have  been  the  main  square  of  the  ruined  city.  As  the  animals  fell  to 
rooting  about  among  the  ruins,  the  woman  walked  across  to  the  in- 
scrutable stone  god  and  bowed  down  before  it  with  a strange,  heath- 
enish courtesy.  I attempted  to  work  my  way  around  to  leeward  in 
the  hope  of  catching  a photograph  of  the  aboriginal  rite.  But  while  I 
was  still  some  distance  off,  she  either  spied  or  scented  me,  and  raced 
away  toward  the  town  at  a greater  speed  than  I had  ever  before  wit- 
nessed in  one  of  her  race. 

In  the  modern  town  dwells  an  indolent,  not  to  say  insolent,  popula- 
tion of  cholos  and  Indians,  ignorant  as  the  Arabs  of  the  Nile  of  the 
motive  that  brings  strange  beings  from  far  off  to  view  the  disdained 
remnants  of  long  ago,  yet  ready  to  take  all  possible  advantage  of  that 
absurd  custom.  The  place  bids  fair  to  become  as  overrun  with  the 
pests  of  tourist  centers  as  the  show-places  of  Europe.  Already  the 
stranger  is  greeted  by  a rabble  of  unsoaped  urchins,  offering  for 
sale  as  “ antigiiedades  ” all  manner  of  worthless  pebbles.  Aware  that 
visitors,  for  some  strange  reason,  are  interested  only  in  things  of  great 

495 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


age,  these  children  vociferously  proclaim  everything  in  sight  “ muy 
antigua,”  even  to  the  loaves  and  meat  displayed  in  the  shops,  a state- 
ment for  which  there  is  some  basis.  The  bulking  church  of  the  town, 
as  well  as  portions  of  the  rudest  edifices,  is  constructed  of  splendid 
cut-stone.  On  either  side  of  the  entrance  are  the  weather-worn  torsos 
of  a man  and  a woman,  crudely  carved  from  reddish  sandstone,  sadly 
defaced,  and  having  an  even  greater  air  of  antiquity  than  the  chief 
monuments  out  on  the  plain.  They  would  be  more  properly  in  their 
setting  out  among  the  other  ruins ; here  they  are  startling  as  one  bursts 
unexpectedly  upon  them  facing  the  empty  grass-grown  plaza  of  the 
dawdling  village. 

The  train  snorted  in  soon  after  noon.  Across  the  bleak  Collao 
spring  plowing  was  at  its  height,  amid  much  ceremony.  Many  of  the 
sleek  oxen  were  half-hidden  by  the  red  and  yellow  flags  of  Bolivia, 
set  upright  on  the  yoke  across  their  horns.  Gay  streamers  and  ban- 
ners decorated  animals  and  plow,  while  the  Indian  family  that  in 
each  case  had  come  in  full  force  to  see  the  propitiation  of  the  spirits 
that  rule  over  the  fields,  was  garbed  in  its  gayest.  For  not  only  must 
the  moon  be  in  a particular  phase,  but  all  gods  must  be  won  over,  all 
demons  exorcised,  and  all  signs  promising,  before  it  is  worth  while  to 
begin  the  year’s  sowing.  What  a fertile  plateau  it  was,  compared  to 
stony  Peru,  the  plowing  unchecked  over  hill  and  dale  of  the  slightly 
rolling  plain  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see ! 

An  official  passing  through  the  train  to  examine  the  bundles  for 
contraband  was  the  only  formality  that  had  marked  the  passing  of 
the  frontier.  In  the  second-class  car  I began  to  gather  the  impression 
that  the  Aymara  Indian,  if  morose  and  even  less  given  to  smiling, 
was  on  the  whole  a more  promising  type  of  humanity  than  the  Qui- 
chuas.  For  though  he  was  more  inclined  to  insolence,  he  was  far  less 
obsequious,  more  manly  than  the  slinking  race  to  the  north,  less  passive 
and  obedient,  more  bellicose  and  jealous  of  his  rights;  and  as  long  as 
there  is  any  fight  left  in  a man,  there  is  still  hope  for  him. 

The  day  waned.  A plowman  driving  his  oxen  homeward  and  carry- 
ing the  plow  on  his  own  shoulder  is  a touch  Gray  did  not  catch.  The 
plain  grew  less  fertile,  and  was  dotted  now  with  countless  stone-heaps ; 
Illimani  and  a long,  half-clouded  snow-range  grew  up  before  us ; we 
climbed  somewhat,  though  the  world  roundabout  seemed  level  as  be- 
fore. The  railroad  swung  to  the  left.  The  scores  of  mule,  donkey, 
and  llama  pack-trains,  however,  kept  straight  on  across  the  bleak, 
stone-heaped  plain,  till  suddenly  at  a white  pillar  a few  miles  away  they 

496 


THE  COLLASUYU,  OR  “ UPPER  ” PERU 

seemed  to  drop  all  at  once  into  the  unknown  over  the  edge  of  the  near 
horizon. 

Where  the  train  halted  I scorned  the  electric  trolley  and,  walking  a 
few  yards,  saw  suddenly  burst  upon  me  a scene  for  once  superior  to 
the  anticipation, — La  Paz,  America’s  most  lofty  capital,  in  its  hole  in 
the  ground.  Up  there  at  the  “ Alto,”  13,600  feet  above  the  sea,  all 
was  brown,  cold,  barren,  unenticing ; all  about,  behind,  and  around 
me  the  bleak,  uninhabited  Andean  plateau,  stony  and  drear,  cherish- 
ing nothing  but  bunches  of  tough  ichu,  stretched  away  like  a faded 
brown  sea  to  the  hazy  distance.  Then  at  my  very  feet  this  gave  way, 
and  all  the  nearby  world  pitched  headlong  down  into  a gashed  and 
broken  chasm  1200  feet  down,  measuring  perhaps  two  miles  across 
from  where  I stood  to  an  equal  height  on  the  tumbled  and  ramified 
foothills  opposite.  These,  breaking  and  splitting  and  falling  away  into 
unseen  valleys,  and  climbing  out  again  to  become  more  rugged  and 
higher  ridges,  finally  culminated  in  a vast  and  jagged  mass  of  snow  and 
ice,  cut  off  from  the  solid  earth  by  banks  of  clouds,  above  which  the 
reflection  of  the  descending  sun  streamed  «in  brilliant  rose  color  upon 
the  glaciered  pinnacle  of  giant  Illimani,  24,500  feet  above  the  sea. 
Across  the  broad  puna  a cold,  fitful  wind  whistled  lugubriously ; down 
below,  though  barely  a sound  of  life  except  the  blood-stirring  snort  of 
a regimental  band  came  up  this  sheer  quarter-mile  from  the  city,  all 
seemed  pleasantly  cozy  and  warm. 

The  lower  flanks  of  the  great  cncnca  were  checkered  with  little 
Indian  farms,  now  mostly  light-brown  from  being  newly  plowed,  some 
still  the  brownish-green  of  old  crops,  and  all  hanging  at  a decided 
angle.  Further  down,  on  the  floor  of  the  valley  itself,  were  similar 
irregular  patches,  chiefly  of  the  brilliant  green  of  alfalfa,  of  every  con- 
ceivable shape, — round,  triangular,  horseshoe,  veritable  “ Gerry- 
manders ” in  the  strange  forms  given  them  by  the  configurations  of 
the  ground ; for,  once  down  below  it,  this  proves  by  no  means  so  floor- 
flat  as  it  seems  from  above.  In  the  very  bottom  of  the  valley,  rather  on 
the  further  side  and  stretching  a bit  up  the  opposite  slope,  lay  La  Paz 
itself.  It  was  a compact  city,  so  compact  that  it  seemed  one  con- 
glomerate mass  into  which  the  eye  broke  only  once, — at  the  tree- 
roofed  central  plaza,  tiny  from  here  as  a green  paster  on  a vast  wall- 
painting.  From  this  height  one  saw  little  but  the  roofs,  the  dull-red 
of  the  tiles  greatly  predominating  — almost  too  much  red,  as  in  the 
garments  of  an  Indian  gathering ; next  came  the  white  and  colored 
house-walls,  then  the  sober  gray  of  old  churches,  and  finally  here  and 

497 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 

there  the  edge  of  a blue,  green,  or  even  an  orange  wall  peering  above 
the  mass. 

All  about  the  city  proper,  imperceptibly  joining  it  and  stretching 
away  on  nearly  all  sides  over  vastly  more  space  than  the  town  itself, 
were  perhaps  half  as  many  buildings,  scattered  singly  or  in  small  clus- 
ters, forming  an  almost  unbroken  row  down  the  valley  to  the  south- 
eastward. Here  and  there  one  of  these  ostentated  itself  in  brilliant 
red ; most  of  them  were  cream-color  or  the  gray  of  sheet-iron ; and 
everywhere  between  them  were  the  irregular  green  of  plowed  patches, 
with  now  and  then  a grove  of  blue-green  eucalyptus,  or  a patch  of 
willows,  enticing  from  this  treeless  height  where,  once  the  eye  rose 
a bit  from  the  floor  of  the  valley,  there  was  not  the  suggestion  of  a 
shrub.  Not  the  least  striking  feature  of  the  scene  was  the  glassy 
clearness  of  the  atmosphere,  with  nowhere  a puff  of  smoke,  and  abso- 
lutely nothing  to  dim  the  view;  if  the  clock  in  the  all-too-slender  tower 
of  the  congress  building  had  been  larger,  it  would  have  been  easy  to 
tell  the  time  by  it. 

Brown  ribbons  of  roads,  all  starting  at  a pillar  on  the  plateau  above, 
strung  like  drippings  of  syrup  down  all  sides  of  the  cuenca,  except 
on  the  rugged,  uninhabited  flank  opposite ; and  along  all  of  them 
on  this  Saturday  afternoon  crawled  at  what  seemed  a snail’s  pace 
files  of  Indians  with  their  laden  donkeys  and  llamas,  the  cargoes 
generally  covered  with  straw,  the  drivers  chiefly  in  red  ponchos, 
though  so  like  tiny  crawling  ants  were  they  from  this  height  that  the 
colors  were  barely  noted.  Seldom  broken,  these  strings  of  pack-trains 
stretched  from  the  edge  of  the  plateau  to  where  the  head  of  each  pro- 
cession to  the  morrow’s  market  was  swallowed  up  in  the  compact, 
silent  city. 

I walked  on  around  the  yawning  chasm,  the  wind  that  howled  across 
the  puna  reaching  the  very  marrow  of  my  bones,  a raging  hail-storm 
beating  upon  me  for  a brief  moment  and  making  the  city  below  seem 
doubly  snug  and  serene  by  ’contrast.  The  little  “ Great  River  ” of 
La  Paz  one  did  not  see  at  all,  so  tiny  is  it  and  worn  so  far  down 
into  the  clay  soil  of  the  valley  in  a half-seen  gorge  descending  through 
tumbled  ranges  of  gnarled  hills  toward  the  yiingas,  as  the  Bolivian 
calls  the  tropical  montana,  below.  Mere  words  give  but  a faint  no- 
tion of  this  lower  end  of  the  cuenca  of  La  Paz.  For  so  broken  and 
pitched  and  tumbled,  so  fantastically  gashed  by  the  rains  is  it,  that 
it  would  be  an  indescribably  beautiful  thing,  even  if  there  were  not 
added  the  wonderful  colors  and  half-tones,  a rich  dark-red  pre- 

498 


THE  COLLASUYU,  OR  “ UPPER  ” PERU 


dominating,  over  the  countless  split  and  torn  and  every-shape  hollows 
and  needles  and  pinnacles  of  earth  across  which  the  cloud-shadows 
play  incessantly.  The  mournful  notes  of  a qv.ena,  or  rude  Indian 
flute,  floated  sadly  by  on  the  wind.  Then  sunset  crept  relentlessly 
across  the  valley  to  the  town  that  seemed  to  crouch  motionless  with 
fear  of  the  darkness  descending  upon  it,  paused  a moment  to  do  its 
work  well,  swallowing  up  all  before  it  in  the  purple  twilight  of  tropical 
altitudes,  then  climbed  slowly  again  out  of  the  hollow  on  the  further 
side  and  spread  at  last  across  all  the  world.  The  city’s  bright  colors 
had  faded  to  an  indistinct  sameness,  the  brown  hills  and  deeply  eroded 
clay  cliffs  were  blotched  red  by  the  departing  sun,  though  the  snow 
peaks  above  were  still  ablaze  with  light ; the  purple  bases  of  the  range 
receded  into  black,  then  into  nothing,  leaving  Illimani  standing  forth 
white  and  cold,  stone-dead  as  a once  ardent  hope,  utterly  alone  in  the 
luminous  sky  of  the  Andean  night. 

I descended  afoot  behind  the  last  pack-train,  a stony,  thigh-aching 
half-hour  from  the  pillar  to  the  central  plaza.  The  first  information 
to  reach  me  was  that  La  Paz  outdid  in  cost  of  living  even  Lima,  which 
is  criminal.  The  boliviano  having  but  four  fifths  the  value  of  the  sol, 
I had  fancied  prices  would  be  correspondingly  lower;  but  here  two 
units  were  often  required  where  one  had  sufficed  before,  and  the 
great  majority  scorned  to  do  business  in  smaller  coins.  The  hotels 
which  my  sadly  mutilated  letter  of  credit  permitted  me  to  enter  were 
not  only  unsavory  and  atrociously  managed,  but  had  the  barbarous 
custom  of  several  beds  in  a room.  Each  in  turn  attempted  to  thrust 
me  into  a rumpled  nest,  with  four  or  five  others  of  unknown  national- 
ity or  antecedents  close  beside  it,  within  a battered  door  to  which  there 
was  neither  lock  nor 'bolt.  Whatever  else  I may  be,  I am  distinctly 
not  a gregarious  being  in  that  sense ; whereupon  they  offered  me  a 
room  with  only  one  companion,  as  if  there  were  any  particular  virtue 
in  numbers ! I brought  up  at  last  in  the  “ Tambo  Quirquincha,”  facing 
the  Plaza  Alonzo  de  Mendoza,  an  inn  favored  almost  entirely  by 
natives  arriving  on  horseback.  , 

The  constitution  of  Bolivia  asserts  that  Sucre  is  the  real  capital, 
but  permits  congress  to  choose  its  place  of  meeting,  and  “ because  of 
the  constant  danger  from  our  two  chief  enemies”  (Peru  and  Chile) 
“ at  the  northern  end  of  the  Republic,  the  Government  really  resides 
in  La  Paz.”  How  much  the  choice  is  governed  by  the  fact  that  there 
is  no  railroad,  but  only  a mule  trail,  to  the  “ real  capital,”  is  a matter 
of  conjecture.  At  any  rate,  the  president  has  not  been  in  Sucre  in 

499 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


more  than  a dozen  years,  congress  has  its  seat  in  La  Paz,  and  the 
head  of  the  army  resides  there  — conditions  which  will  no  doubt  con- 
tinue, at  least  until  the  railroad  reaches  Sucre.  On  the  other  hand 
the  former  “ Chuquisaca  ” is  honored  with  the  presence  of  the  su- 
preme court  and  the  archbishop  of  Bolivia,  who  do  not  have  to 
move  often  enough  to  make  mule  trails  burdensome.  But  Sucre  will 
not  be  comforted.  Her  chief  newspaper  is  named  “ La  Capital,” 
each  of  its  editorials  ends  with  the  argument  “ La  Capital ! ” and 
it  always  refers  to  La  Paz  as  “ the  present  seat  of  Government.” 

This  “ seat  of  Government,”  perhaps  the  most  Indian  capital  of  all 
South  America,  has  the  most  purely  Spanish  name.  It  should  still  be 
called  Chuquiyapu,  as  the  aboriginals  refer  to  it  to-day,  rather  than  by 
the  trite  Castilian  designation  that  is  duplicated  a score  of  times 
throughout  Spanish-America.  The  census  of  1909  discovered  76,559 
persons  in  the  entire  hole  in  the  ground.  Of  these,  20,007  were  rated 
“ white,”  but  as  usual  in  Latin-America  the  enumerators  got  the  color 
sadly  mixed  with  the  social  position  of  the  enumerated.  Indeed,  the 
chief  of  the  census  goes  on  to  explain  “ white  ” as  “ descendants,  more 
or  less  pure,  of  Spaniards,  Europeans,  or  North  Americans” — in 
other  words,  anyone  with  a distinct  trace  of  European  blood.  There 
may  be  a third  that  many  of  strictly  Caucasian  race.  Of  the  3458 
foreign  residents,  86  were  Americans ; of  696  non-Catholics,  562  were 
foreign  men,  40,  foreign  women,  193,  Bolivian  men  (“  chiefly  athe- 
ists”), and  one  Bolivian  woman.  Bold  woman,  indeed,  to  admit  it! 
The  census  rated  30%  of  the  population  as  Indians ; but  here  again  the 
social  status  must  have  played  its  part,  or  else  there  are  many  non- 
resident country  Indians  often  in  the  city.  African  blood  is  extremely 
rare,  though  slavery  was  not  abolished  until  1851.  It  is  no  climate  for 
negroes.  “ The  unmarried  American  women  are  nearly  all  teach- 
ers,” the  report  continues,  then  takes  a rap  at  the  country’s  chief  enemy 
for  stealing  her  seaport  and  bottling  her  up  within  South  America  by 
remarking,  “ Las  chilenas  living  in  La  Paz  are  almost  without  excep- 
tion prostitutes.”  Most  striking  of  all  the  data,  perhaps,  is  the  fact 
that  of  the  60,445  inhabitants  over  nineteen  years  of  age,  only  13,047 
are  married.  But  this  does  not  mean  that  race  suicide  is  imminent ; 
rather  that  the  priests  have  made  the  cost  of  marriage  all  but  pro- 
hibitive to  the  lower  classes,  and  that  many  others  are  thereby  in- 
fluenced to  consider  the  ceremony  of  minor  importance.  In  the  en- 
tire republic  16%  are  “ alfabeticos,”  that  is,  “ know  their  letters,” 
a much  more  handy  expression  in  Latin-American  statistics  than 

500 


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THE  COLLASUYU,  OR  “ UPPER  ” PERU 

“ read  and  write.”  Only  Honduras,  in  all  America,  is  so  low  in  this 
respect. 

Roughly  speaking,  the  population  is  divided  into  three  classes,  as 
everywhere  in  the  Andes,  each  shading  into  the  other  until  the  lines  of 
demarkation  are  at  best  hazy.  Of  the  whites,  the  census  report  itself 
asserts,  “ Sequestered,  they  knew  more  of  theological  subtleties  than 
of  religion,  were  more  devout  than  moral,  and  had  more  preoccupa- 
tions than  ideas.  There  is  even  to-day  no  stimulus  for  their  best 
faculties,  and  they  have  lost  almost  completely  that  virile  character 
bequeathed  them  by  their  Spanish  ancestors.  They  will  work  only  at 
commerce  or  government  employments  that  demand  no  corporeal  fa- 
tigue.” Effeminate  is  the  description  that  most  quickly  occurs  to 
the  foreigner;  but  they  are  no  more  so  than  all  men  of  the  “ gente 
decente  ” class  throughout  South  America.  Even  the  whites  take  on 
something  of  that  sulky  disconfidence,  that  unobliging  insolence  of  the 
Aymara  character,  and  one  quickly  catches  the  feeling  that  the 
foreigner  is  disliked  in  Bolivia,  at  least  far  more  so  than  in  Peru. 
Another  native,  with  the  point  of  view  of  wide  travel,  assures  us, 
“ The  whites  are  really  Indians  and  cholos  in  their  mode  of  thought. 
Thanks  to  the  Aymara  blood  in  his  veins,  or  to  the  effect  of  that  en- 
vironment on  his  character,  the  paceno  lacks  docility,  is  uncommuni- 
cative, and  is  bored  at  all  times  at  everything ; hence  his  desire  for 
excitement,  for  noise,  and  the  resultant  life  in  the  canteens.  In  the 
three  cold  cities  of  Bolivia  more  liquor  is  consumed  than  in  all  the  rest 
of  the  country ; alcoholism  is  the  national  vice  par  excellence,  and  the 
surest  way  to  win  a fortune  is  to  run  a bar.” 

But  in  any  strict  census  the  cholo  is  the  most  numerous  class  of  La 
Paz.  A native  writer  succinctly  explains  the  rise  of  this  mixed  race : 
“ As  in  the  beginning  the  Spaniards  had  not  within  reach  many  women 
of  their  own  race,  they  satisfied  the  physical  and  moral  necessities  of 
the  sex  with  women  of  the  vanquished  tribes.  ...  A few  of  these  suc- 
ceeded in  inspiring  real  passion  in  the  breasts  of  the  hardy  Conquista- 
dores,  sometimes  even  to  the  extent  of  causing  the  latter  to  marry 
themselves  legally  and  Catholicly  with  our  Indian  women.”  All  hail 
to  the  inspiring  Indian  women ! One  must  not,  however,  overlook  the 
fact  that  “ real  passion  ” among  the  old  Spanish  Conquistadores  was 
not  so  closely  allied  to  soap  and  tooth-powder  as  in  our  own  days. 
Short  and  sturdy  — especially  the  women,  who  do  not  wear  themselves 
out  with  dissipation  — with  quick  little  eyes,  the  cholos  have  much  of 
the  independence  of  the  Aymara  character ; they  are  quite  the  oppo- 

501 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 

site  of  servile,  and  somewhat  despise  both  the  whites  and  the 
aboriginals. 

No  country  of  South  America  has  so  large  a percentage  of  pure 
Indian  population  as  Bolivia.  The  Aymara  is  by  nature  silent  and 
aloof,  more  sullen  and  cruel  than  the  Quichua,  and  by  no  means  so 
obsequious  as  the  aboriginals  of  Cuzco.  He  never  touches  his  hat 
to  a passing  gringo ; unlike  the  Indian  of  Quito  he  crosses  the  main 
plaza  in  any  dress  he  chooses,  even  carrying  bundles  and  sitting  on  the 
benches ; in  the  region  roundabout,  the  race  has  inner  organizations 
under  their  own  chiefs  which  are  virtually  independent  of  the  Gov- 
ernment ; yet  in  town  he  does  as  he  is  ordered,  though  sullenly,  and 
shop-keepers  drag  him  in  to  perform  any  low  task  at  whatever  reward 
they  choose  to  give  him.  As  pongo,  or  house-servant,  he  is  farmed  out 
as  a child  and  becomes  virtually  a slave, — though  that  condition  wor- 
ries him  little.  A frequent  “ want-ad.”  in  the  papers  of  La  Paz  runs : 
“ Se  alquila  pongo  con  taquia,”  that  is,  there  is  for  rent  an  Indian  serv- 
ant with  necessity  of  gathering  for  his  master  llama  droppings  as 
fuel.  Festivals  and  fire-water  are  his  chief  amusements.  Sunday  he 
reserves  as  a day  to  get  drunk,  and  couples  are  reputed  to  take  turns 
at  this  recreation,  so  that  one  may  be  in  condition  to  lead  the  other 
home  when  it  is  over.  His  music  is  melancholy  beyond  words.  As 
a Bolivian  puts  it,  “ He  lives  without  inquietude  and  without  remorse, 
being  dangerous  only  when  he  is  full  or  liquor  or  religion.  He  is  a 
beast  of  burden,  uncomplaining,  desires  nothing,  is  apparently  content 
with  his  fate,  and  looks  with  supreme  indifference  on  all  the  rest  of  the 
world  and  its  people.” 

The  contrasts  of  life  in  La  Paz  are  striking.  Here  an  ancient  scribe 
sits  before  a typewriter  agency;  there  a group  of  Indian  women 
squat  before  the  crude  products  of  the  country,  in  front  of  the  elec- 
tric-lighted emporium  of  a foreign  merchant;  electric  tramways  thrust 
aside  trains  of  llamas  even  in  the  principal  streets.  Speaking  of  these 
street-cars,  they  crawl  back  and  forth  across  town,  sometimes  zig- 
zagging whole  blocks  for  every  street ; and  the  dishevelled  carriages 
for  hire  are  generally  drawn  by  four  horses.  For  La  Paz  is  broken 
and  steep,  often  held  up  in  layers  by  retaining  walls,  while  the  side- 
walks are  often  toboggan-steep  and  always  slippery.  Houses  which 
from  the  “ Alto  ” seem  on  the  level  are  found  to  be  a hundred  feet  or 
more  one  above  the  other.  It  is  one  of  the  easiest  cities  to  get  lost  in 
without  being  really  lost ; for  one  always  comes  out  finally  on  some 
corner  where  a familiar  landmark  or  half  the  city  stands  forth  to 

502 


THE  COLLASUYU,  OR  “UPPER”  PERU 


orientate  one  at  once.  Many  a street  is  crowded  with  Indians  from 
the  country,  and  especially  with  chola  vendors  who,  there  being  no 
regular  market-place,  spread  their  wares  where  they  will,  squatting  in 
unbroken  rows  on  the  sidewalks  and  driving  the  uncomplaining  pedes- 
trian into  the  slippery  cobbled  streets.  One  does  not  hurry  in  La 
Paz ; the  air  is  too  scanty.  A bogotano  complained  that  he  could  not 
sleep  there  on  account  of  the  altitude ! The  temperature  ranges  from 
6 degrees  Centigrade  in  June  to  18  in  this  mid-summer  month  of 
December.  Yet  even  then  it  was  somewhat  wretched  after  sunset, 
and  no  one  would  choose  to  sit  in  pajamas  in  the  central  plaza  at  night. 
From  eleven  to  three  it  grew  almost  uncomfortably  warm  for  climbing 
about  so  up-and-down  a place,  and  the  brilliant  unclouded  sky  was 
hard  both  on  eyes  and  nerves  at  noon-day. 

It  is  difficult  for  the  stranger  to  get  accustomed  to  seeing  droves 
of  llamas,  with  drivers  dressed  in  the  style  of  Inca  days,  soft-footing 
across  the  main  plaza  or  patiently  awaiting  their  masters,  with  the 
modern  congress  building  as  a background.  Congress,  by  the  way, 
was  in  session  during  my  days  in  La  Paz.  The  visitors’  gallery  is 
high  up  above  the  perfectly  circular  chamber,  giving  the  half-hundred 
representatives  the  appearance  of  being  down  at  the  bottom  of  a deep 
well.  They  smoked  frequently,  spoke  sitting,  were  largely  white, 
though  the  cholo  class  was  by  no  means  unrepresented,  and  among 
them  were  two  priests  in  full  vestments,  their  tonsures  shining  up  at 
us  like  rays  from  the  Middle  Ages.  There  were  also  several  who 
strangely  resembled  Tammany  politicians  of  the  popular  cartoons, 
and  nowhere  was  there  any  outward  sign  of  genius,  legislative  or  other- 
wise. While  the  man  who  had  the  “ floor  ” kept  his  seat  and  droned 
endlessly  through  something  or  other,  the  presiding  officer  sat  motion- 
less and  openly  bored,  and  members  slept,  smoked,  read  newspapers, 
wrote  letters,  and  otherwise  busied  themselves  with  the  vital  problems 
of  the  nation,  after  the  fashion  of  legislative  bodies  the  world  over. 

There  is  a distinct  gradation  in  the  costumes  of  La  Paz,  especially 
among  the  women.  The  men  of  the  “ gente  decente  ” class,  the  whites 
and  the  consider-themselves-whites,  ape  Paris  to  the  best  of  their  abil- 
ity, as  in  all  Andean  capitals.  The  higher-class  cholo,  ranging  from 
shoe-makers  to  clerks — in  both  the  American  and  English  sense  — 
wears  more  or  less  countrified  and  ill-fitting  “ European  ” garb,  even 
to  gloves  and  a cane  on  Sunday,  if  he  can  get  them ; for  social  standing 
depends  chiefly  on  dress.  The  less  ambitious  half-caste  wears  the 
same  leather  sandal  as  the  Indian,  a coat  showing  a bit  above  or  below 

503 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


his  more  or  less  crude-colored  poncho,  a coarse  shirt  without  collar,  and 
a heavy  felt  hat.  A peculiarity  of  the  paceno  costume,  as  universal 
among  the  Indians  and  poorer  cholos  as  the  cord  around  the  knee  of 
British  workmen,  is  a slit  in  the  back  of  the  trouser-leg,  showing  a 
white,  pajama-like  undergarment  above  the  bare  brown  ankle.  The 
Indians,  conservative  as  all  their  race,  are  slow  to  adopt  the  slightest 
change,  and  still  dress  much  as  in  the  time  of  the  Incas.  The  men 
wear  peaked  knitted-wool  “ skating-caps  ” of  gay  colors,  with  earlaps, 
like  clowns  in  a circus,  often  with  a felt  hat  of  varying  tones  of  gray 
on  top  of  it.  Their  ponchos  of  alpaca-wool  are  of  solid  colors, — 
orange,  scarlet,  purple,  magenta  — with  some  tone  of  red  always  the 
ruling  favorite.  Much  of  this  cloth  has  for  years  come  from  Ger- 
many, though  there  is  still  considerable  native  weaving.  Some  go 
barefoot;  more  often  they  wear  the  heavy,  well-made  leather  sandals 
that  are  displayed  in  large  quantities  in  the  market-stalls. 

But  the  men  of  La  Paz  lend  it  little  color  compared  to  the  women. 
These  may  be  roughly  divided,  following  the  local  phraseology,  into 
“ senoritas,”  “ cholas,”  and  “ indias  ” ; though  these  in  turn  subdivide, 
until  there  are  six  rather  distinct  costume  classes,  all  shading  some- 
what into  one  another.  First : The  foreign  women  and  a small 

number  of  native  white  ones  copy  the  styles  of  Paris  with  more  or 
less  success.  Second : The  moderately  well-to-do  woman  — and  all 

those  of  the  “ gente  decente  ” class  during  the  morning  hours  of  mass ; 
it  being  against  the  rules  to  wear  a hat  in  church  — wrap  them- 
selves from  head  to  foot  in  the  jet  black  manto  that  gives  them  the  ap- 
pearance of  stalking  crows.  These  commonly  powder  their  faces  with 
what  seems  to  be  cheap  flour,  and  are  rarely  startling  in  their  beauty, 
though  many  are  physically  attractive  between  the  ages  of  seventeen 
and  twenty-three. 

Third  (to  be  marked  Baedeker-fashion  with  two  stars)  comes  the 
most  picturesque  figure  in  Bolivia,  if  not  in  South  America, — la  chola 
de  La  Paz.  Her  mate  may  blossom  out  in  all  the  atrocities  or  “ Eu- 
ropean ” attire,  but  la  chola  clings  tenaciously  and  wisely  to  the  cos- 
tume of  her  ancestors.  Moreover,  in  this  case  the  picturesque  is  not 
attended  by  its  usual  handmaid,  uncleanliness.  La  Paz  is  not  im- 
maculate by  modern  standards,  but  at  least  la  chola  does  her  share 
toward  making  it  seem  so.  She  wears  the  usual  multiplicity  of  skirts, 
but  of  a finer  material  and  better  fit  than  elsewhere,  so  that  while  she 
is  still  somewhat  bulky  about  the  hips,  she  is  not  disagreeably  so. 
Her  outer  skirt  is  always  of  a solid  color,  distinctly  gay,  but  never  of 

504 


"Suddenly  the  bleak  pampa  falls  away  at  one's  feet,  and  La  Paz  in  its  hole  in  the  ground,  1,200  feet  below,  spreads  out  at  the  foot  of  Illimani  and  its  sister  peaks 


THE  COLLASUYU,  OR  “ UPPER  ” PERU 


the  crudeness  this  garment  attains  among  the  Indian  women.  Of  well- 
woven  cloth,  it  stops  just  halfway  from  foot  to  knee,  never  high 
enough  to  suggest  immodesty  and  never  low  enough  to  drag  on  the 
ground,  as  is  the  distressing  custom  among  many  of  the  middle-class 
women  up  and  down  the  Andes.  Above  this  she  wears  two  shawls  — 
at  least  that  is  the  nearest  English  equivalent  in  a male  vocabulary  — 
of  some  excellent  material  closely  resembling  silk,  with  perpendicular 
stripes  of  varying  width  and  color,  the  whole  gay  in  the  extreme,  yet 
never  clashing  with  the  rest  of  the  costume  so  far  as  the  mere  male  eye 
can  detect.  These  being  large,  they  are  folded  in  the  middle  and  thrown 
about  the  shoulders,  a glimpse  of  the  inner  one  adding  to  the  gaiety  of 
the  ensemble,  the  fringe  of  both  sweeping  her  ankles.  Her  hair, 
jet  black,  and  coarse  as  a horse’s  mane,  she  parts  in  the  middle  and 
combs  flat  on  either  side,  the  ends  of  the  braids,  without  the 
suggestion  of  a decoration  of  ribbon  or  flower,  hanging  sometimes  in- 
side, sometimes  outside  the  shawls.  From  her  ears  swing  heavy 
earrings  of  fantastic  design  some  two  inches  long.  Most  striking 
of  all  is  her  unique  hat.  This  is  of  straw,  of  “ Panama  ” texture,  with 
the  general  form  of  our  derby  or  the  Englishman’s  “ bowler,”  lacquered 
or  glazed  over  with  something  that  causes  it  to  reflect  the  brilliant 
sunlight  of  these  heights  like  a mirror,  and  seeming  at  first  sight  as 
absurd  and  out  of  place  as  our  own  “ ’ard  ’at  ” might  to  a visitor  from 
Mars. 

But  one  soon  gets  used  to  it,  and  even  to  like  it,  especially  as  la 
chola  wears  it  at  just  the  suggestion  of  a rakish  angle,  ever  so  slightly 
inclined  over  the  right  eye,  though  the  near-certainty  that  she  is 
wholly  unconscious  of  that  fact  only  adds  to  the  attractiveness.  When 
she  grows  excited,  as  in  arguing  the  price  of  a nickel’s-worth  of  beans 
in  the  market-place,  she  has  a way  of  giving  the  front  rim  a flip  of  the 
finger  that  knocks  the  hat  back  from  her  brow,  under  which  circum- 
stances she  so  vividly  recalls  a Western  “ drummer  ” in  a heated  but 
friendly  argument  in  a bar-room,  that  one  sighs  with  regret  that  she 
has  not  a half-burned  cigar  protruding  at  an  aggressive  angle  from  the 
comer  of  her  mouth  to  complete  the  picture. 

There  remains  but  to  speak  of  her  footwear.  This  consists  of  a high 
shoe,  native-made,  on  a very  Parisian  last,  with  high,  slender  “ French 
heels,”  of  every  color  a shoe  could  be  by  any  stretch  of  propriety,  but 
with  cream  or  canary-color  the  favorite,  a bow  of  the  same  material  — 
it  seems  to  be  kid  — down  near  the  toe  and  a bundle  of  tassels  at  the 
top.  Occasionally  the  shoes  are  high  enough  to  join  company  with 

505 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


the  halfway-to-the-knee  skirt,  below  which  peers  the  white  lace  of  an 
inner  petticoat,  but  even  then  when  she  stoops  over  in  arguing  a pur- 
chase, one  notes  a “ clocked  ” stocking,  that  adds  still  more  to  the 
debauch  of  colors,  going  on  up  — at  least  to  where  it  is  fitting  for  a 
stranger  to  cease  investigation. 

Astonishment  grows  that  la  chola  can  afford  such  garments.  The 
shoes  alone  cost  as  high  as  $10,  and  every  stitch  in  sight  is  of  a grade 
and  workmanship  that  come  high  in  Bolivia,  that  would  not,  indeed,  be 
cheap  in  a far  more  productive  country.  Yet  the  chief  wonder  is  the 
specklessness  of  her  entire  garb  — doubly  wonderful  to  one  of  long 
Andean  experience.  The  glazed  hat  shines  like  the  polished  dome  of 
a mosque,  the  skirts  and  shawls  always  look  as  if  they  had  just  that 
moment  come  out  of  a Parisian  shop,  and  the  cream-colored  shoes 
have  not  a fly-speck  upon  them ; yet  la  chola  wears  this  costume  at 
any  hour  and  under  all  circumstances  — in  the  street,  at  least  — and 
carries  on  her  often  soiling  business  in  all  parts  of  town.  Some  assert 
that  she  starves  herself  to  dress ; but  her  appearance  does  not  uphold 
the  contention.  However  she  affords  it,  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  the 
means  will  continue,  and  that  she  will  not  some  day  abandon  in  favor 
of  the  atrocities  of  foreign  fashions  the  most  picturesque  costume  in 
South  America,  and  the  chief  decoration  of  every  outdoor  scene  and 
public  gathering  in  La  Paz. 

The  chola  is  not  exactly  chic;  the  thicksetness  bequeathed  her  by 
Indian  forebears  makes  that  word  fail.  But  she  is  as  nearly  so  as  the 
Andean  Indian  type  can  become ; and  as  she  trips  along  at  a “ snappy,” 
energetic  stride  up  and  down  the  break-neck  cobbled  streets  of  La  Paz, 
in  her  slender-waisted  “ French  heels,”  and  not  only  does  not  break 
her  neck  but  does  not  even  jar  from  its  angle  her  “ stiff  ’at,”  the  eye  is 
as  certain  to  note  her  passing  as  it  would  that  of  a meteor  in  the  sky 
above.  She  is  always  full-cheeked  and  plump,  often  good  to  look  at 
in  spite  of  her  rather  bulky  Indian  features,  and  aggressively  inde- 
pendent, going  anywhere  at  any  time  she  chooses  in  complete  indiffer- 
ence to  the  oriental  seclusion  that  still  clings  about  the  upper  class 
women.  She  treats  the  rest  of  the  world  with  a manner  midway  be- 
tween sauciness  and  impudence,  scorning  anything  on  the  plane  of 
reading  and  writing  with  the  disdain  of  her  Indian  forebears.  She 
holds  most  of  the  places  in  the  market  and  the  pulperias,  or  little  liquor 
and  food  shops,  and  ranges  all  the  way  from  small  shopkeeper  to  un- 
servile  serving-maid  to  well-to-do  women.  One  gets  the  impression 
from  a brief  acquaintance  that  she  is  as  superior  to  her  mate,  the  shifty- 

506 


THE  COLLASUYU,  OR  “ UPPER  ” PERU 


eyed  cholo,  as  are  the  women  of  Tehuantepec  to  their  men.  She  speaks 
Aymara  by  choice,  but  will  use  Spanish  when  necessary;  and  she  is 
always  at  least  comparatively  young.  One  sees  cholas  up  to  thirty  or 
thirty-five,  but  as  they  do  not  look  as  if  they  died  off  at  that  age,  the 
natural  conclusion  is  that  they  fall  into  a more  somber  and  less  agree- 
able costume.  La  chola  is  seldom  married  ‘ legally  and  Catholicly,” 
but  if  she  has  a baby,  a mishap  that  not  infrequently  befalls  her,  she 
wears  it  as  all  Andean  women  wear  their  babies, — on  her  back.  In- 
stead of  being  carelessly  slung  in  a blanket  tied  across  mother’s  chest, 
however,  this  fortunate  mite  sits  in  a whole  nest  of  clean,  gay  gar- 
ments, the  spotless  white  lining  hanging  down  a foot  or  more  on  all 
sides  of  it,  ending  in  a lace  fringe.  Indeed,  this  better  care  of  baby  is 
notable  in  La  Paz,  and  has  its  influence  even  among  the  Indian  women. 

But  I set  out  to  give  a half-dozen  female  classes.  The  fourth  is  the 
same  chola,  just  a shade  lower  in  the  scale.  She  also  wears  a little 
round  hat,  but  of  brown  or  black  felt.  Her  skirts  and  shawls  are  less 
gay  and  of  coarser  texture,  her  stockings  are  dark,  and  her  footwear 
a shining-black,  low  slipper  without  heel.  The  fifth  is  usually  a com- 
mon servant,  almost  touching  on  the  Indian  woman,  her  garments 
sometimes  descending  to  the  plebeian,  crude-colored,  made-in-Ger- 
many-and-in-a-hurry  bayeta  in  which  the  higher  grade  chola  would 
scorn  to  be  seen,  though  it  is  almost  universal  to  her  class  elsewhere  in 
the  Andes.  She  wears  also  a shiny  black  slipper,  but  no  stockings, 
though  her  brown  plump  leg  looks  almost  like  finely  woven  silk.  There 
is  no  suggestion  of  immodesty  in  this  absence  of  nether  covering,  yet 
when  one  of  this  class,  for  some  sojourning-gringo  reason,  suddenly 
appears  in  the  bare  white  legs  of  what  at  first  glance  seems  a lady  of 
our  own  race,  the  sight  brings  something  of  a shock.  Of  the  three 
types  of  chola,  the  third  and  fourth  may  blend  a bit,  sometimes  to  the 
extent  of  coiffing  the  latter  in  a glazed  hat ; but  only  the  first  ever  falls 
into  the  foolishness  of  the  “ upper  ” class  in  flouring  her  face  a bit, 
and  at  worst  it  is  confined  to  a few  sporadic  cases. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  scale,  as  everywhere  in  the  Andes,  comes  the 
Indian  woman,  varying  a bit  in  garb,  according  to  the  degree  of  her 
poverty.  She  wears  the  round  felt  hat  and  endures  the  chill  highland 
winds  by  wrapping  several  thick  bayeta  skirts  of  clashing  colors  around 
her  waist  in  bunches,  until  she  looks  like  — I am  at  a loss  for  a com- 
parison that  is  ugly,  awkward,  and  bulky  enough ; — - may  I say,  like  a 
very  badly  packed  sack  of  assorted  hardware  with  the  looser  and 
lighter  things  above  the  compressed  middle?  She  likes  red  best,  and 

507 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


as  the  day  warms,  every  second  or  third  of  the  skirts  she  removes  one 
by  one  is  of  some  shade  of  that  color.  Below  them  are  bronzed  legs 
and  either  bare  feet  with  hoof-like  soles,  or,  as  La  Paz  and  vicinity  are 
distinctly  stony,  as  well  as  cold,  with  a flat  sandal  of  a single  piece  of 
leather,  with  thongs  over  the  heel  and  between  the  large  toe  and  the 
others.  Solidly  built  as  she  is,  one  wonders  how  the  Indian  woman’s 
waist  can  support  the  weight  of  six  or  eight  heavy  bayeta  skirts. 
Yet  always,  in  addition  to  these,  night  or  day,  young  or  old,  drunk  or 
sober,  filthy  or  only  dirty,  she  carries  a bundle  on  her  back  in  the 
colored  blanket  tied  across  her  chest,  with,  whenever  possible  — and 
her  possibilities  in  this  line  are  infinite  — the  head  of  a baby  protrud- 
ing somewhere  from  the  load,  now  gazing  earnestly  at  the  road  ahead, 
now  dancing  a crowing  hornpipe  on  the  broad  back  of  the  utterly  un- 
responsive mother. 

Now,  mix  all  these  types ; put  at  least  half  the  male  population  in  gay 
ponchos,  with  every  known  shade  of  saffron,  red,  orange,  purple,  and 
the  like ; sprinkle  among  them  youths  with  long  hair  tied  in  queues, 
wearing  gay-striped  ponchos  that  conceal  all  but  their  sturdy  brown 
legs,  who  straggle  up  out  of  the  tropical  coca-country  to  the  east  to 
mingle  with  the  city  life ; add  a distinctive  costume  for  each  surround- 
ing village,  the  noiseless  llama-driver  in  his  absurd  cap,  a number  of 
Germans  in  Bolivian  army  uniforms,  monks  in  black,  brown,  and  white, 
nuns  in  gray,  soldiers  in  light-gray  uniforms,  policemen  in  brown 
ones,  hundreds  of  personal  idiosyncracies  in  color  and  style,  and  it 
will  be  more  easily  understood  why  La  Paz  is  justly  entitled  to  that 
overworked  word  “ picturesque,”  and  why  the  aboriginal  name  of 
Chuquiyapu  would  still  be  more  fitting  than  the  trite  Spanish  one  by 
which  Bolivia’s  unofficial  capital  is  known  to  the  world.  Moreover, 
children  dress  exactly  like  father  or  mother  as  soon  as  they  can  walk. 
La  chola’s  little  girl  is  her  mother’s  exact  miniature,  glazed  hat,  gay 
shawl,  fancy  little  high-heeled  shoes  and  all,  as  likely  as  not  with  a doll 
in  fancy  garments  on  her  back  ; the  cholo’s  son  paddles  behind  his  father 
in  long  breeches  slit  up  the  back,  gay  poncho  and  felt  hat;  the  little 
Indian  girl  trots  after  her  mother  in  the  selfsame  red,  green,  or 
magenta  skirts  of  bayeta,  the  round  felt  hat  on  her  head,  and  always  a 
bundle  on  her  back,  though  she  be  barely  three  years  old  and  the  burden 
only  a bundle  of  yarn  — as  if  to  accustom  her  early  to  the  life  she 
must  lead  to  the  day  of  her  funeral. 

There  are  many  fine  walks  in  and  about  La  Paz.  On  a sunny  after- 
noon, brilliant-clear  as  an  afternoon  can  be  only  at  this  height,  it  is  a 

508 


Llamas  of  La  Paz  patiently  awaiting  the  return  of  their  driver 


Down  the  valley  below  La  Paz  the  pink  and  yellow  soil  stands  in  fantastic,  rain-gashed  cliffs 


THE  COLLASUYU,  OR  “ UPPER  ” PERU 


joy  to  follow  a muddy  little  creek,  known  as  the  Chuquiyapu,  down 
through  the  broken  and  tumbled  gorge  below  the  town,  where  the  clay 
soil,  now  sandy  white,  now  soft  red,  is  rain-gashed  into  a hundred  fan- 
tastic shapes.  The  slender,  always-at-home  eucalyptus  and  a species 
of  weeping-willow  line  the  way.  Illimani  raises  its  hoar  head  higher 
and  higher  into  the  sky  above,  seeming  to  calm  the  spirits  with  its 
majestic  serenity  and  promise  of  perpetual  coolness.  So  impercep- 
tibly does  the  valley  descend  that  one  could  drift  clear  down  into  the 
languid  tropical  yungas  that  draws  one  on  like  a lodestone,  like  the 
“ spicy  garlic  smells  ” of  the  Far  East,  until  suddenly  realizing  how 
far  the  city  has  been  left  behind,  one  takes  oneself  figuratively  by  the 
neck  and  turns  back  to  the  town. 

Or  there  is  the  climb  out  of  the  cuenca  itself,  a stiff  hour  to  the 
pillar  above.  Once  on  the  bleak  puna,  I wandered  along  the  edge  of 
the  chasm  to  get  a view  of  the  city  below  from  all  angles.  Near  the 
station  my  eye  was  caught  by  the  private  car  of  a railroad  superin- 
tendent. Fancying  it  might  be  that  of  my  host  on  the  journey  up 
from  Arequipa,  I strolled  toward  it.  A dishevelled  fellow,  his  ragged 
coat  close  up  around  his  neck,  his  long  hair  protruding  like  straw  from 
a scarecrow,  a two  weeks’  black  beard  bristling,  sat  on  the  back  plat- 
form, peeling  potatoes. 

“ Esta  aqui  el  Senor ? ” I asked  casually. 

A cloud  of  incomprehension  seemed  to  pass  over  the  scarecrow  face. 
I repeated  the  question,  thinking  he  might  be  one  of  those  weak- 
minded  natives  so  often  found  at  large  in  South  America. 

“ English ! English  is  all  I talks,”  came  the  startling  reply  out  of 
the  depths  of  the  unshaven  one,  not  only  the  accent  but  the  presence  of 
a few  blackened  stumps  in  lieu  of  teeth  betraying  both  the  nationality 
and  the  caste  of  the  speaker.  As  I had  never  since  leaving  Panama 
seen  a white  man,  much  less  an  English-speaking  person,  doing  manual 
labor  my  mistake  was  natural. 

Thanks  to  the  pleasure  of  having  a hearer  who  could  understand 
him,  the  exile’s  sad,  not  to  say  jumbled,  story  was  soon  forthcoming. 

“ I ’ad  a good  iducation,  d’  ye  see,”  he  began,  “ sent  to  collidge  an' 
all  that ; but  I tykes  it  into  my  ’ead  t’  go  t’  sea.  An’  I was  first-cabin 
steward  on  the  ‘ Dinkskiver  ’ — I ’ve  my  papers  an’  discharge,  an’  ready 
t’  show  ’em  t’  any  man  — an’  we  runs  int’  Australy,  an’  I goes  t’  the 

Club  there,  an’  a gentleman  he  introdjuces  me  t’  the  club,  which 

is  where  all  the  best  gentlemen  belongs,  d’  ye  see.  An’  ’e  says,  ‘ Look 
’ere,  if  you ’d  like  t’  stop  ashore  we  ’ll  get  the  captain  t’  sign  y’  off  an’ 

509 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


we  ’ll  put  y’  up  as  steward  t’  the  club,  d’  ye  see  — I bein’  a first-class 
cook  an’  can  bake  an’  do  any  kind  o’  cookin’ — an’  I got  me  papers  an’ 
discharges  right  ’ere  with  me  t’  prove  it.  An’  it  was  a right-o  job, 
one  o’  the  best  jobs  I ever  ’ad,  s’  elp  me.  So  I was  steward  t’  the 

Club,  d’  ye  see  — an’  I ’ll  show  the  papers  provin’  it  t’  any  man 

interested  — but  fin’ly  one  day  I blew  that  job,  d’  ye  see ; an’  I was 
three  years  out  in  Australy.  But  finally  one  day  I says  t’  myself,  ‘ I 
might  as  well  see  America,  too.’  An’  I ’ad  my  passage  pyde  clean  ’ome 

t’  Liverpool,  d’  ye  see,  on  the  Roossian  steamer  , an’  we  come 

across  t’  Hyquique  first,  she  bein’  bound  round  the  ’Orn  ’ome  t’  Liver- 
pool. But  three  of  us  gets  ashore  in  Ayquique,  d’  ye  see,  an’  we  was 
messin’  about  there  an’ — an’ — lookin’  about,  d’  y’  understand,  an’  fin’ly 
we  was  left  ashore  there  in  Hyquique,  d’  ye  see,  not  ’avin’  got  on  board 
again  before  the  packet  sailed.  An’  the  British  Consul  ’e  says,  ‘ Well, 
I ’ll  do  anything  I can  fer  ye,  boys.’  An’  I ’ad  money  too,  d’  ye  see, 
an’  my  passage  was  pyde  clean  ’ome  t’  Liverpool  on  the  Roossian,  only 
she  slipped  ’er  ’ ook  while  we  was  ashore  an’  there  we  was  stranded  in 
Hyquique. 

“ So  then  I gets  up  t’  this  ’ere  Arequeepy  ” (It  turned  out  later  that 
he  meant  Arica)  “ art’  I ’ad  money  on  me,  d’ y’  understand,  but  I was 
lookin’  about  an’  seein’  if  I could  n’t  get  work,  d’  ye  see,  an’  messin’ 
about  ’ere  an’  there,  an’  fin’ly  I ’ad  n’t  no  money  left  an’  was  on  the 
beach  there  in  Arequeepy.  An’  so  I tykes  on  with  the  boss  ’ere  as 
cook  — I bein’  a first-class  cook  an’  steward  — an’  the  boss  ’e  likes  me 
all  right,  too,  d’  ye  see.  Only  d’  ye  know  what  ’e ’s  pying  me?  Sixty 
bally  paysoze  a month ! That  is,  I sye  ’e ’s  pying  me  that,  but  not  a 
blightin’  tanner  ’as  ’e  give  me  yet,  an’  s’  elp  me,  I ayn’t  so  much  as  ’ad 
a shave  since  I took  up  with  ’im.  So  finally  I says,  ‘ Well,  ’ere,  sir,  I 
wants  me  money.’  An’  the  boss  says,  All  right,  ’e ’d  pye  me  all  right, 
only  ’e  ’ad  n’t  nothin’  with  ’im  t’  pye  me  then,  the  banks  bein’  all  closed 
on  a Sunday;  an’  ’e  says,  ‘ Well,  I ’ll  tell  ye  what  I ’ll  do.  If  you  ’ll 
go  up  t’  Bolivy  on  this  ’ere  trip  I ’ve  got  t’  make,  I ’ll  pye  ye  soon  as 
ever  we  get  down  again,’  d’  ye  see.  So  I says,  ‘ That  ’ll  do  me,’  an’  we 
come  up  ’ere.  An’  I ayn’t  ’ad  my  clothes  off  on  th’  ole  bolly  trip,  an’ 
cookin’  all  the  time.  The  boss  ’e  likes  me  all  right,  d’ye  see,  but  I 
don’t  know  ’ow  about  this  ’ere  Peruvan  in  the  ki’chen  with  me,  seein’ 
as  ’ow  I can’t  understand  ’is  bloomin’  lingo.  An’  I only  jus’  left  a 
good  cookin’  job  account  o’  a black  feller.  ’E  was  always  pickin’  up 

with  me,  an’  fin’ly  one  day  ’e  calls  me  a , an’  I says, 

‘ You  ’re  another,  ye black  ,’  an’  so  I quit  an’  got  this 

5io 


THE  COLLASUYU,  OR  “ UPPER  ” PERU 


’ere  job  with  the  boss  — anythink  at  all  t’ keep  y’ afloat  when  y’ re 
stove  in,  d’  ye  see.  An’  yesterday  mornin’  we  stops  at  a place,  d’  ye 
see,  an’  the  boss  says,  ‘ Well,  now,  Joe,  rustle  out  an’  buy  some  per- 
visions  ’ — an’  me  not  knowin’  a word  o’  the  bally  lingo ! An’  then 
las’  night  when  I ’d  served  ’em  coffee  at  ’arf  past  midnight,  the  boss 
says,  ‘ Well,  ye  might  as  well  turn  in  an’  do  a wink  o’  sleep,  Joe.’  So 
I turns  in  under  the  dinin’-room  tyble ; only  I could  n’t  sleep  any  all 
night  fer  the  cold.  Nobody  ’ad  took  the  trouble  t’  tell  me  it  was  cold 
up  ’ere,  d’  ye  understand,  an’  bein’  in  the  tropicks  I did  n’t  see  'ow  it 
could  be  — an’  me  been  livin’  in  North  Australy  where  it’s  a ’underd 
an’  twenty  in  the  shyde.  But  I says  t’  myself,  d ’ye  see,  I ’ll  tyke  one 
blanket  along  in  cyse  I ’ave  a chance  t’  turn  in  on  the  trip.  Only  one 

blanket  don’t  stop  the  cold  at  all  ’ere,  d’  ye  see,  an’  when  the  boss 

comes  int’  the  dinin’-room  this  mornin’  an’  says,  ‘ Well,  Joe,  let ’s  ’ave 
some  coffee,’  I ’ad  n’t  slept  none  whatever.  An’  I ’ave  that  funny 
feelin’s,  my  legs  all  ’eavy  an’  achin’  an’  feelin’  that  bad  in  the  back 
o’  the  neck  I don’t  know  but  I ’m  took  with  somethink.  I ’ll  tell  ye 
this  ayn’t  no  white  man’s  country,  tyke  it  from  me.  When  I gets 
down  again,  if  the  boss  ’ll  give  me  my  money,  I ’m  goin’  t’  make  fer 
’ome  full  speed  a’ead,  I ’m  tellin’  ye  an’  not  ashymed  of  it.  It ’s  all 
right-o  fer  you  that  talks  the  lingo  an’  as  got  ’ardened  t’  the  cold.  But 
fer  me  that  could  n’t  sleep  a wink  all  night  fer  bein’  that  cold  — ’ere  in 
the  tropicks,  too  — an’  that  busy  cookin’  day  an’  night  I ayn't  ’ad  my 
clothes  off  on  the  trip,  an’  this  ’ere  achin’  in  my  legs,  d’ye  see,  as  if 

I ’d  been  took  with  somethink.  . . No,  I ayn’t  been  down  t’  the  city, 

though  o’  course  I see  it  from  up  ’ere,  an’  I was  wonderin’  what  place 
it  would  be,  bein’  a moderate  fine  lookin’  town  fer  these  ’ere  foreign 
countries.  But  we  ’ll  be  goin’  back  t’night ; the  boss  ’ll  likely  be  ’ere 
any  minute.  An’  I comes  of  a good  family,  d’  ye  see,  an’  they  ’ll  be 
’appy  t’  see  me  ’ome  again,  they  will.  They  give  me  a good  iduca- 
tion  an’  sent  me  t’  collidge  an’  all  that,  d’  ye  see ; only  I took  it  int’  me 
’ead  t’  go  t’  sea  an’  come  out  t’  Australy,  an’  I ’ll  show  any  man  me 
papers  — ” 

But  the  bitter  night  air  that  was  beginning  to  sweep  across  the 
plateau  was  not  the  only  reason  I decided  to  be  on  my  way. 

As  the  sun  sets  gradually  down  through  the  cuenca  of  La  Paz,  so 
it  rises,  gilding  first  the  western  precipice  far  up  near  the  edge  of  the 
plateau,  plainly  seen  from  my  pillow  in  the  “ Tambo  Quirquincha,” 
then  slowly  crawling  down  into  the  valley  until,  long  after  its  first 
appearance,  it  finally  floods  in  upon  the  city  itself  and  lights  up  its 

5ii 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


streets  and  eastern  house-walls.  On  such  a cool,  sun-flooded  morning, 
known  to  the  calendar  as  December  fourth,  a cholo  boy  of  eleven 
presented  himself  to  carry  my  baggage  to  the  station,  and  did  so 
easily,  though  I should  have  groaned  at  the  load  myself.  The  second- 
class  coaches,  here  tramcars,  left  first,  and  slowly  corkscrewed  up  out 
of  the  valley,  the  motorman,  once  we  were  started,  coming  inside 
where  it  was  a bit  less  frigid,  closing  the  door  behind  him,  and  giving 
all  his  attention  to  two  comely  cholas  whose  little  black  eyes  jumped 
about  like  those  of  guinea-pigs. 

On  the  “ Alto  ” a brilliant  sun  somewhat  tempered  the  biting  cold 
of  the  puna  at  this  early  hour.  At  Viacha  a better  train  awaited  us, 
her  engine  turned  south, — big  vestibuled  cars,  marked  “ Ferrocarril  a 
Bolivia  ” and  plying  to  Antofagasta,  a smooth,  well-built  road-bed 
that  spoke  of  Chile  and  more  modern  countries,  a diner  ready  for 
those  who  did  not  choose  to  buy  boiled  goat  and  frozen  potatoes  of 
the  skirt-heaped  Indian  women  squatting  at  the  stations.  Once  off 
across  the  sandy,  bunch-grass  wilderness,  flat  as  a sea,  with  herds  of 
llamas  grazing  here  and  there,  and  little  farms  of  all  shapes  hanging  on 
the  slopes  of  far-off  and  gradually  receding  hillsides,  the  train  sped 
on  as  if  it  never  intended  to  stop  again.  In  truth  there  was  little 
reason  to  do  so,  for  it  was  as  dreary  a region  as  the  imagination  could 
picture.  The  few  stations  at  which  we  halted  briefly,  single,  wind- 
swept huts  on  the  edge  of  salt  marshes,  bore  names  fitting  to  the  land- 
scape,— Silencio,  Soledad,  Eucalyptus  — here  a lone  tree  afforded  the 
only  feature  to  which  a name  could  be  attached.  Now  and  then 
mirages  across  the  dismal  desert  gave  the  lomitas  the  appearance  of 
islands,  the  heat  waves  seeming  to  be  water  lapping  their  shores. 

In  mid-afternoon  Oruro  arose  across  the  brown  pampa,  as  Port 
Said  rises  from  her  muddy  sea,  and  we  rumbled  into  a flat,  miserable, 
if  from  the  miner’s  point  of  view  important  town,  gloomy,  bleak,  per- 
haps the  most  desolate  city  my  eyes  had  ever  fallen  upon.  The  squat 
adobe  buildings,  chiefly  one-story,  were  in  many  cases  thatched  over 
tile  roofs,  giving  them  the  appearance  of  wearing  a weather-worn  hat 
over  colored  caps,  like  the  Indians  of  La  Paz.  Reddish-brown, 
utterly  barren  desert  hills,  with  mine  openings,  formed  the  background. 
The  wind  drove  the  sand  like  needles  into  our  faces  and  seemed  bent 
on  cutting  our  eyes  out.  Cholas  ostentated  themselves  in  somewhat 
the  same  costume  as  those  of  the  seat  of  government,  but  dulled 
and  soiled  by  the  all-pervading  dust.  Siberian,  dreary,  comfortless, 
the  place  seemed,  yet  its  stores  were  well-stocked,  and  there  were 

512 


V 


. 


... 


Cholae  of  La  Paz,  in  their  striking  costume 


THE  COLLASUYU,  OR  “ UPPER  ” PERU 


more  gringos  per  capita  than  I had  seen  in  many  a day.  Seeming  to 
hate  themselves  and  life  in  general,  even  the  Americans  had  a 
haughty,  unapproachable  air,  as  in  so  many  mining  towns  of  the 
Andes,  the  unconscious  result  no  doubt  of  caste  treatment  of  Indian 
workmen. 

I was  only  too  glad  when  the  train  on  a newly-constructed  branch- 
line carried  us  off  northeastward  late  next  morning.  A long  string  of 
mud  monuments  still  marks  the  centuries’-old  route  across  the  track- 
less desert.  Beehive-shaped  huts  of  mud  huddled  in  the  sunshine 
here  and  there.  We  climbed  in  long  zigzags  over  the  crest  of  the 
Cuesta  Colorada,  drear  hills  of  broken  rock  where  only  a scant  brown 
bunch-grass  finds  foothold.  Below  the  divide  hearty  gringo  faces, 
more  cheerful  in  this  lower  altitude,  broke  in  now  and  then  on  the 
monotony  of  Latin-American  features.  Many  tents  marked  with 
large  letters  “ F.  C.  A.  B.”  lined  the  way,  interspersed  with  the  stone 
kennels  of  workmen  and  their  women,  and  the  swarming  natural  con- 
sequences. There  is  something  about  a railroad  construction-gang 
more  suggestive  of  the  world’s  progress  than  almost  any  other  labor 
of  man. 

The  new  line  petered  out  in  the  stony  village  of  Changolla,  some 
sixty-five  miles  from  Oruro  and  halfway  to  Cochabamba,  which  it  is 
in  time  due  to  reach.  A stage-coach  offered  accommodations  for  the 
rest  of  the  trip;  but  the  joy  of  jolting  all  day  in  the  thing  was  not 
commensurate  with  the  pleasure  of  a new  experience,  even  had  the 
fare  for  both  passengers  and  baggage  not  been  prohibitive  to  a scan- 
tily supplied  wanderer.  “ See  Sinclair  there,”  suggested  the  gringo 
chief,  pointing  to  a sandy,  unshaven  Scot  of  more  than  six  energetic 
feet,  who  was  superintending  the  loading  of  all  manner  of  railroad 
material  into  ponderous  two-wheeled  carts ; and  the  hint  was  sufficient. 

Changolla  would  have  been  excited  that  night  were  it  possible  for 
railroad  constructors  of  long  experience  in  many  wild  regions  to  be- 
come so.  A fellow-countryman  and  predecessor  of  the  New  Zealander 
in  charge  of  the  camp  had  gone  on  a rampage  with  an  American  youth 
and  turned  bandits,  in  dime-novel  style.  Filled  with  distilled  bravery, 
they  had  “ held  up  ” a nearby  camp  under  the  impression  that  the  pay- 
master had  arrived,  and  disappointed  in  this,  they  had  shot  a harmless 
Chilian  employee.  It  took  some  time  and  all  my  papers  to  calm  the 
suspicions  of  Changolla  before  I was  offered  lodging  with  the  New 
Zealander.  The  “ bandits  ” had  sworn  to  shoot  him  and  his  assistants 
on  sight,  and  a cardboard  had  been  fastened  over  the  window  to  pre- 

513 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


vent  them  from  carrying  out  the  threat  by  lamp-light  as  we  ate,  though 
none  of  the  group  showed  any  nervousness  at  the  prospect. 

But  the  highwaying  of  the  pair  was  amateurish  at  best.  They  had 
made  no  plans  whatever  for  getting  out  of  town,  had  even  to  ask  the 
way,  and  had  as  provisions  — two  bottles  of  whiskey.  Thus  it  was 
not  strange  that  they  were  rounded  up  before  morning,  and  my  hosts 
showed  no  surprise  when  dawn  disclosed  the  prisoners  shackled  in  one 
of  the  box-cars.  They  had  been  taken,  asleep,  some  ten  miles  from  the 
scene  of  the  crime,  with  a bottle  in  one  hand  and  a gun  in  the  other. 
The  chief  looked  his  fellow-countryman  over,  expressed  his  senti- 
ments with  a “ You  ’re  a hell  of  a bandit,  you  are,”  lit  a cigarette, 
and  went  on  about  his  day’s  work.  Mounted  on  asses,  with  a stick 
through  their  elbows  behind  them,  the  pair  set  out  for  Cochabamba 
guarded  by  a score  of  soldiers.  The  punishment  for  murder  in 
Bolivia  is  to  be  taken  back  to  the  scene  of  the  crime  and  shot,  though 
there  is  many  a slip  between  the  law  and  its  execution,  and  judges, 
according  to  my  hosts,  must  be  properly  “ greased  ” before  they  will 
even  indict  a criminal,  particularly  when  the  complainant  is  a rich 
foreign  company. 

Meanwhile  nine  enormous  carts,  each  drawn  by  six  sleek  and  mighty 
mules,  laden  with  all  the  bulky  material  required  for  railroad  con- 
struction, to  say  nothing  of  my  baggage,  and  covered  in  Forty-niner 
fashion,  got  under  way.  I set  off  ahead.  The  trail  followed  a broad, 
stony  and  sandy  river-bed  across  which  serpentined  a yellow  brook  of 
brackish,  luke-warm  water  which  it  was  impossible  by  just  two  steps 
to  cross  dry-shod.  The  unfinished  railroad  flanked  the  barren,  stony 
hills  on  the  left,  the  embankment  carved  out  of  them  being  broken  by 
unbuilt  bridges  and  incomplete  cuts  and  tunnels  that  cost  me  many  a 
steep  scramble.  In  the  river-bed  below  passed  a broken  stream  of 
Indians  and  cholos  driving  donkeys  and  mules,  heavy-laden,  as  were 
most  of  the  drivers  themselves,  their  ponchos,  chiefly  of  red  with  nar- 
row perpendicular  stripes,  standing  out  against  the  barren  brown  land- 
scape. Every  little  green  patch  on  its  edge  was  well-populated ; many 
a hacienda  or  small  village  having  become  a railway  construction  camp 
where  haughty  young  Englishmen  gazed  coldly  and  suspiciously  at 
one  of  their  race  sinking  his  caste  to  travel  on  foot.  The  Briton  who 
has  “ knocked  about  ” the  world  until  the  corners  have  been  blunted 
is  an  agreeable  fellow;  but  in  his  youthful,  fresh-from-London  days 
he  is  best  avoided. 

The  embankment  gave  out,  and  we  struck  a gorge  where  the  carts 

514 


THE  COLLASUYU,  OR  “ UPPER  ” PERU 


were  saved  only  by  the  vigilance  of  “ Sandy,”  astride  his  splendid 
macho,  and  the  mules,  as  by  a miracle.  In  the  blazing,  dusty,  river- 
bed, sweat  poured  profusely  as  I plodded,  clinging  to  the  tail  of  a cart 
to  be  snatched  across  the  ever-recurring  stream.  The  towns  were  mis- 
erable, yet  misery  seems  far  less  pitiful  in  perpetual  summer.  Worst 
of  all,  there  was  no  water  a man  dared  drink.  The  banks  of  the  river 
were  lined  for  broken  spaces  with  large  quantities  of  cobbles  inside 
wire  nets  — an  Argentine  idea,  according  to  the  Scot  — to  keep  the 
river  from  undermining  and  washing  away  the  coming  railroad.  It 
seemed  absurd  to  have  to  take  such  precautions  against  a tiny  meander- 
ing brook,  but  in  the  rainy  season  this  increases  to  a rushing  torrent 
filling  all  the  valley. 

It  was  starving  mid-afternoon  before  “ Sandy  ” called  a halt  for 
“ breakfast,”  and  the  peons  prepared  a chupe, — a stew  of  potatoes, 
charqui,  rice,  and  anything  else  that  it  occurred  to  them  to  toss  into 
the  pot.  At  sunset  we  camped  like  gypsies  in  the  stony,  wind-blown, 
waterless  river-bed ; the  mules  were  turned  loose  among  several  heaps 
of  straw  carried  in  one  of  the  carts,  and  we  rolled  up  in  blankets  on 
the  sand.  The  drivers  were  a motley  gang  of  Bolivian,  Argentine, 
and  Chilian  cholos,  each  with  the  accent  peculiar  to  his  nationality. 
All  had  long  knives  in  their  belts  and  were  inclined  to  use  them  on  slight 
provocation.  Several  carried  their  wives,  or  at  least  their  women, 
with  them  in  the  carts,  sometimes  with  a child  or  two  in  addition. 

Next  day  as  I plodded  beside  his  long-legged  mule,  “ Sandy  ” 
whiled  away  the  long,  hot  hours  with  reminiscences. 

“ Did  they  tell  you  in  Juliaca  how  I cleaned  out  their  damned  hotel,” 
he  asked. 

They  had,  but  I wanted  “ Sandy’s  ” own  version  of  the  affair. 

“ Well,  we  were  playing  billiards,  when  some  greaser  said  some- 
thing about  gringos,  and  I told  him  to  shut  up.  The  crowd  was  too 
drunk  to  know  better,  so  I had  to  take  a bunch  of  billiard-cues  and 
clean  out  the  thirty-two  of  them.  It  cost  me  just  a hundred  and 
twelve  pounds  — twelve  for  the  greasers’  doctor-bills  and  a hundred  to 
get  my  friend  the  subprefect  to  lie  low  until  I could  get  over  the  line. 

“ Before  the  railway  came  I used  to  transport  across  the  desert 
from  Arica,”  he  went  on,  steering  his  mule  around  a hollow  of  broken 
rock,  “ and  I had  a little  dog  named  Bobbie  Burns.  He  was  a 
wise  little  dog,  and  as  the  desert  sand  burned  his  feet  he  got  still 
wiser,  and  used  to  run  way  ahead  of  me,  a mile  or  so,  so  far  he  could 
just  see  me,  and  then  dig  a hole  in  the  sand  and  lie  in  it  until  I was  a 

515 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


mile  ahead  and  almost  out  of  sight  again;  and  then  he  would  race  by 
me  with  a ‘ how-d’-do  ’ yelp  and  dig  another  hole.  A chileno 
greaser  killed  that  little  dog,”  said  “ Sandy,”  gazing  dreamily  across 
the  mirage-flowing  landscape,  “ and  I never  got  a chance  to  do  as 
much  for  him.” 

The  Capinota  river  we  had  been  following,  or  rather  criss-cross- 
ing, for  two  days  came  to  an  alfalfa-green  village,  exceedingly  restful 
to  eyes  that  had  been  gazing  unbrokenly  on  the  sun-flooded  desert, 
and  the  trail  struck  off  at  right  angles  up  a branch  of  a stream  milky 
with  dust.  That  night  we  camped  again  in  the  sand  at  the  end  of  the 
haul,  in  celebration  of  which  “ Sandy  ” shaved  and  put  on  a purple 
neckcloth  to  scream  at  his  red  hair.  There  I took  leave  of  him,  with 
seventeen  miles  still  separating  me  from  Cochabamba.  It  was  not  the 
problem  of  transporting  myself,  but  rather  my  baggage,  that  forced 
me  to  trot  several  times  into  blazing-hot  Parotani  in  quest  of  a donkey 
— all  in  vain.  At  length  — strange  chances  one  takes  in  South 
America — I caught  a total  stranger  bound  for  the  city,  and  he  was 
soon  lost  in  the  dust  ahead,  with  all  my  possessions  on  the  crupper  of 
his  mule.  The  sweating  trail  with  its  plaguing  brook  grew  in  time 
into  a road  on  the  left  bank ; huts,  then  entire  villages  sprang  up  beside 
me ; troops  of  pack-animals  increased  to  an  almost  steady  stream,  and 
at  four  I overtook  my  baggage  in  Vinto,  recovered  it  by  payment  of  a 
boliviano , and  was  soon  screaming  in  a little  toy  train  on  a 75-centi- 
meter-gage track,  at  the  terrifying  speed  of  an  hour  and  forty  minutes 
for  the  twelve  miles,  into  the  second  city  of  Bolivia. 


CHAPTER  XIX 


ON  FOOT  ACROSS  TROPICAL  BOLIVIA 

THERE  are  three  such  “ railroads  ” running  out  of  Cocha- 
bamba, though  none  of  them  venture  more  than  a few  miles. 
All  were  brought  up  piecemeal  on  muleback  or  on  massive 
two-wheel  carts,  like  the  first  steamers  on  Titicaca,  for  it  is  what  the 
natives  call  a “ mediterranean  ” town.  One  is  a steam  line  with  a 
single  toy  locomotive,  which  starts  every  hour  from  the  central  plaza, 
for  the  suburb  Calacala,  “ noted  ” for  its  baths,  splitting  the  ears 
with  its  infantile  shriek  and  spitting  hot  cinders  upon  all  the  bench- 
holders  in  the  vicinity.  A cochabambino  assured  me  that  I could  not 
believe  it  possible  this  “ enormous  ” locomotive  had  been  brought 
“ from  Germany  ” on  muleback ; but  as  he  had  never  been  further 
out  of  town  than  its  three  little  lines  could  carry  him,  his  conception 
of  locomotives  was  somewhat  atrophied.  This  one  was  so  childlike 
that  once,  when  it  suddenly  started  up  as  I was  crossing  the  street, 
I unconsciously  put  out  a hand  to  thrust  it  back  until  I had  passed. 

Cochabamba,  60,000  inhabitants  by  its  own  count,  the  majority  of 
whom  have  never  left  its  suburbs,  is  conceded  to  be  the  second  city 
of  Bolivia,  and  considers  itself  the  first,  after  the  South  American 
fashion.  It  is  constantly  quarrelling  with  La  Paz  as  to  which  shall 
furnish  the  country  its  president,  a truce  being  usually  patched  up  by 
alternating  the  honor.  The  population  of  Bolivia  is  made  up  of  just 
such  heterogeneous  groups,  among  which  there  exists  a profound  aver- 
sion. The  rivalry  is  particularly  tenacious  between  the  Collas,  those, 
chiefly  of  the  Aymara  race,  inhabiting  the  Collao,  or  northern  portion 
of  the  country  bordering  on  Titicaca,  and  the  south  of  the  republic, 
containing  a large  proportion  of  Quichua  blood  and  partaking  of  many 
of  the  characteristics  of  that  timid,  dreamy  race.  Like  the  Quichua 
in  general,  the  cochabambino  is  wedded  to  his  native  soil,  with  an 
ineradicable  affection  for  it,  partly  because  isolation  keeps  its  customs 
largely  unchanged.  The  tongue  of  the  Incas  is  still  the  chief  one  of 
the  lower  classes ; the  town’s  name,  indeed,  is  derived  from  the 
Ouichua  words  koclia  (lake)  and  patnpa  (plain) — which  the  Con- 

517 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


cjuistadores  as  usual  corrupted  by  pronouncing  it  as  if  they  had  a 
cold  in  the  head.  There  is  little  question  but  that  the  surrounding 
valley  was  once  a lake-bottom.  Founded  in  1574,  the  place  was 
christened  by  a high-sounding  Spanish  name,  which,  as  so  often  hap- 
pened in  South  America,  failed  to  stick.  It  has  a restful,  summer- 
resort  air,  with  birds  singing  in  its  shaded  alamedas,  reminding  one 
faintly  of  Granada,  with  its  sand  and  cactus  and  half-arid  soil  requir- 
ing irrigation.  The  little  river  Cocha  wanders  by  the  north  and  east 
sides  of  the  town  on  its  way  to  join  the  Mamore;  the  surrounding  hills 
are  less  brown  than  the  altiplanicie,  half-clothed  with  trees  and  with 
patches  of  green  running  up  the  sides  of  the  range.  The  showers 
were  no  highland  drizzles,  but  perfect  sheets  of  water  for  an  hour  or 
more  — fine  prospects  for  my  continued  travels  at  the  end  of  wheel- 
going ! 

Yet  it  is  a colorless  place  compared  to  La  Paz.  Adobe  is  the  chief 
building  material;  there  is  no  structure  of  great  importance,  though 
“ La  Compania  ” of  the  early  Jesuits  has  the  usual  ornate  fagade.  Its 
houses  are  of  the  light  yellow  mud  of  the  surrounding  plain,  less 
painted  than  those  of  the  capital,  and  even  the  tile  roofs  are  of  so  dull 
and  dusty  a red  as  scarcely  to  excite  the  eye.  On  a barren  knoll  at 
the  back  of  the  town  is  a ruined  adobe  bull-ring,  once  large  and  ornate, 
and  still  higher  up,  before  the  monument  to  the  “ Heroes  of  Cocha- 
bamba,” the  gaze  stretches  away  across  a yellowish  land,  flat  as  a 
sea,  baking  in  the  blazing  sunshine.  Costumes,  too,  show  far  less  color 
than  those  of  La  Paz.  La  chola  wears  a similar  hat,  but  it  is  flatter 
and  therefore  uglier,  and  she  has  neither  the  immaculateness,  in- 
stinct for  pleasing  color  combinations,  nor  the  sprightliness  of  her 
Aymara  cousin.  Natives  of  pure  Caucasian  blood  are  so  rare  as  to 
be  almost  conspicuous.  Important  commerce  is  largely  in  the  hands 
of  Germans;  even  the  English  vice-consul  was  a Teuton.  The  munici- 
pal library  bore  a large  sign  announcing  that  it  was  open  from  9 to  11, 
1 to  4,  and  7 to  9.  At  nine-thirty  the  doddering  old  librarian  ap- 
peared, and  at  10:05,  when  he  had  finished  reading  the  morning  paper 
and  smoking  his  cigarette,  he  put  on  his  hat  and  remarked,  “ Nos 
vamos,  senores,”  and  go  we  did,  sure  enough.  In  the  afternoon  and 
evening  he  did  not  appear.  Cochabamba  has  been  called  the  paradise 
of  priests.  Fat,  coarse-featured  men  of  the  cloth  swarm,  and  the 
town  is  rated  the  most  fanatical  in  Bolivia.  As  late  as  ten  years  ago 
a hogiiera  was  lighted  in  the  central  plaza  to  carry  out  an  auto  de  fe 
against  a Protestant  who  had  dared  to  preach  his  doctrines  in  a pri- 

5i8 


ON  FOOT  ACROSS  TROPICAL  BOLIVIA 


vate  house,  the  materials  for  the  inquisitorial  bonfire  being  the  holy 
books  and  furniture  of  the  evangelist.  The  troops  were  called  upon 
to  interfere  and  prevented  the  consummation  of  the  act,  but  they  were 
not  able  to  keep  the  “ heretics  ” from  being  cruelly  stoned  by  the  popu- 
lace. The  approach  of  the  railway,  however,  the  arrival  of  many 
gringos,  and  a now  firmly  established  mission-school  with  a govern- 
ment subsidy  is  wearing  down  somewhat  this  medieval  point  of  view. 

In  a corner  of  the  main  plaza  of  Cochabamba,  where  the  sunshine 
streaks  upon  it  through  the  trees,  was  the  “ gringo  bench,”  a rendez- 
vous at  which  there  was  always  to  be  found  at  least  an  American  and 
an  odd  Englishman  or  two,  generally  miners  and  even  more  generally 
penniless.  For  Bolivia  had  proved  less  golden  than  the  rumors  that 
had  oozed  forth  from  her  interior,  and  there  is  no  better  climate  than 
that  of  Cochabamba  in  which  to  sit  waiting  for  whatever  chooses 
to  turn  up  next.  At  the  time  of  my  arrival  the  bench  had  three 
principal  occupants.  The  most  permanent  fixture  was  “ Old  Man 
Simpson,”  over  eighty,  not  merely  a fellow-countryman,  but  originally 
from  the  same  town  in  which  I had  spent  my  youth ; indeed,  he  was 
still  a subscriber  to  the  weekly  newspaper  I had  earned  more  than  one 
school-day  dollar  folding  and  “ carrying.”  A “ Forty-niner  ” who 
had  drifted  from  California  to  Chile,  he  had  been  in  South  America 
unbrokenly  — though  frequently  “ broke  ” — many  more  years  than  I 
had  been  on  earth,  his  fortunes  rising  and  falling  with  miner’s  luck 
and  open-handedness,  his  “ Spanish  ” still  atrocious.  Now  he  was  so 
nearly  blind  that  he  could  recognize  us  one  from  another  only  by  our 
voices ; and  every  day  he  sat  from  sunrise  to  dusk,  except  for  his 
“ breakfast  ” and  siesta  from  eleven  to  one,  in  the  shaded  corner  of 
the  plaza,  a cud  of  coca-leaves  in  one  cheek,  his  gnarled  and  leathery 
hands  folded  on  the  head  of  his  chonta  cane.  All  day  long  he  would 
weave  endless  tales  of  the  prospector’s  life,  wandering  disconnectedly 
over  all  the  western  side  of  the  continent,  as  long  as  he  could  get  a 
single  gringo  to  sit  and  listen.  When  he  could  not,  and  was,  or 
fancied  himself,  alone,  he  sat  hour  after  hour  motionless,  murmuring 

each  time  the  clock  in  the  tower  above  struck,  “ Well,  it ’s 

o’clock,”  and  relapsing  again  into  silence. 

After  Simpson  came  Sampson,  an  extraordinary  cockney,  re- 
sourceful, quick-witted,  full  of  quaint  sayings,  of  a strikingly  per- 
sonal philosophy  of  life,  so  much  of  a “ hustler  ” that  his  initiative 
often  boiled  over  into  audacity.  He  spoke  fluently  a colloquial  Spanish 
and  considerable  Quichua,  chewed  coca  incessantly,  and  came  close  to 

519 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


being  the  ugliest  man  I had  ever  set  eyes  upon.  This  last  mentioned 
quality  was  enhanced  by  the  slap-stick  clown  garb  he  wore, — faded 
overalls  with  a bib,  some  remnants  of  shoes  here  and  there  about  his 
ham-like  feet,  a wooden  neck-cloth  a la  Whitechapel,  and  an  Indian 
felt  hat  on  the  back  of  his  bullet  head.  His  view  of  life  he  summed 
up  — among  friends  — briefly  with,  “I  am  strictly  honest;  I never 
tyke  anything  I can’t  reach.”  As  to  his  resourcefulness : in  this  iden- 
tical garb  he  had  gained  the  entree  to  the  haughtiest  class  of  natives, 
with  whom  outward  appearances  constitute  some  99  percent.,  and 
had  talked  his  hypnotic  way  into  the  confidence  of  a lawyer  and  ex- 
senator of  Cochabamba  to  such  an  extent  that  the  latter  contemplated 
giving  him  charge  of  a large  tract  of  land  to  plant  with  cotton. 

The  third  bencher,  Tommy  Cox,  had  been  “ down  inside  ” with 
Sampson  on  some  prospecting  scheme  that  had  failed.  Originally  from 
Toronto,  he  was  in  appearance  and  speech  a “ typical  Englishman,”  a 
little  sandy-haired  fellow  of  twenty-five,  the  antithesis  of  his  com- 
panion in  initiative,  of  so  dim  a personality  compared  to  Sampson 
that  one  barely  noted  his  existence  when  the  two  were  together. 

When  I arrived  in  Cochabamba  nothing  was  more  certain  than  that 
I should  continue  my  tramp  down  the  Andes,  through  Sucre  and 
Potosi,  into  the  Argentine.  But  plans  do  not  keep  well  in  so  warm  a 
climate.  I sat  one  day  musing  on  the  trip  ahead  of  me,  when  Sampson 
cut  in : 

“ ’Ere!  If  you  ’re  looking  for  something  new,  why  don’t  you  shoot 
across  country  by  Santa  Cruz  to  the  Paraguay  river  and  down  to 
Asuncion  and  B.  A.  ? Least  I don’t  think  it ’s  never  been  done  by  a 
white  man  alone  and  afoot.” 

The  idea  sprouted.  I suddenly  discovered  that  I was  weary  of  high 
altitudes  and  treeless  punas,  of  the  drear  sameness  of  the  Andes  and 
the  constant  repetition  of  the  serranos  that  inhabit  them.  To  that 
moment  I had,  like  most  of  the  world,  conceived  of  Bolivia  as  a lofty 
plateau,  arid  and  cold ; whereas  more  than  half  of  it  is  a vast,  tropical 
lowland,  spreading  away  from  the  slopes  of  the  Andes  to  the  borders 
of  Brazil,  Paraguay,  and  Argentina,  making  it  the  third  largest  country 
of  South  America.  There  was,  it  seemed,  a fourth  way  of  entering 
or  leaving  this  mediterranean  land,  and  it  was  neither  by  way  of 
Mollendo,  Arica,  nor  Antofagasta ; but  a route  all  but  unknown  to  the 
world  at  large,  yet  followed  by  many  of  its  imports  and  exports. 
The  montana  or  yungas  promised  a new  type  of  people,  a new  style 
of  life ; a knowledge  of  South  America  would  be  only  half  complete 

520 


ON  FOOT  ACROSS  TROPICAL  BOLIVIA 


without  including  in  my  itinerary  the  immense  hot-lands  and  river- 
webbed  wilderness  stretching  eastward  from  the  Andes.  I wished 
some  day  to  visit  Paraguay,  anyway;  the  distance  to  Puerto  Suarez 
was  evidently  greater  than  to  railhead  in  the  Argentine  — by  striking 
an  average  of  varying  information,  with  the  assistance  of  such  maps 
as  the  local  librarian  gave  me  time  to  glance  over,  I came  to  the  con- 
clusion that  it  was  roughly  800  miles  — but  on  the  other  hand  much  of 
this  new  route  was  floor-flat,  and  I had  had  my  fill  of  climbing  over 
such  labyrinths  of  mountain  ranges  as  lay  to  the  south.  True,  in  this 
season  the  region  to  the  east  would  be  wet  and  muddy,  but  with  no 
bitter  cold  nights  in  prospect  I could  throw  away  much  of  my  load, 
and  at  least  there  would  be  brilliant  sunshine  most  of  the  time,  which 
is  half  of  life.  Besides,  is  not  the  chief  joy  of  travel  the  privilege  of 
suddenly  and  unexpectedly  smashing  fixed  plans,  to  replace  them  with 
something  hitherto  undreamed? 

To  all  these  arguments  there  was  added  another  still  more  potent. 
When  I began  to  make  inquiries,  I learned  that  the  proposed  trip  was 
“ impossible.”  Several  of  my  informants  quoted  recently  received 
letters  to  prove  it.  The  last  hundred  leagues  would  be  entirely  under 
water;  the  wild  Indians  of  the  Monte  Grande  would  see  to  it  that  I 
should  not  get  so  far,  to  say  nothing  of  miles  of  chest-deep  mud-holes, 
“ tigers,”  and  swarms  of  even  more  savage  insects,  and  many  days 
without  food  or  human  habitation.  That  settled  it.  In  Bogota  the 
tramp  down  the  Andes  had  been  “ impossible,”  but  had  long  since  lost 
completely  that  charming  quality.  I decided  to  strike  eastward  in 
quest  of  the  Paraguay. 

“ I wouldn’t  mind  tackling  it  myself,”  sighed  Tommy,  when  I men- 
tioned my  decision  to  the  benchers.  “ I ’m  badly  needed  in  B.  A.  But 
I ’m  stony  broke.  Of  course  if  I could  find  anyone  who  would  take 
along  a steamer-trunk-size  man  as  excess  baggage  — ” 

“ If  the  senator  does  n’t  make  up  his  wandering  Bolivian  mind  soon, 
I ’ll  quit  embellishing  this  plaza  myself,”  put  in  the  cockney,  though 
there  was  a glint  in  his  eye  that  suggested,  long  afterward,  that  he  had 
meant  the  hint  as  a hoax,  and  considered  the  trip  as  impossible  as  did 
the  rest  of  Cochabamba. 

Were  I to  have  a companion,  I should  not  have  chosen  Sampson. 
He  was  a man  with  far  too  much  mind  of  his  own  to  be  good  com- 
pany in  an  uncivilized  wilderness.  Tommy,  diffident,  unresourceful, 
totally  lacking  in  initiative,  without  self-confidence,  wholly  innocent  of 
Spanish,  to  all  appearance  tractable  and  harmless,  was  much  to  be 

521 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


preferred.  Moreover,  he  was  better  looking.  Though  I was  thinly 
furnished  with  bolivianos  and  the  nearest  possible  source  of  supply  was 
Buenos  Aires,  I concluded  that  the  code  of  world-wanderers  forbade 
me  to  leave  Tommy  to  waste  away  on  the  f‘  gringo  bench,”  and  we 
joined  forces.  He  was  to  carry  his  proportionate  share  of  such  bag- 
gage as  I could  not  throw  away,  including  the  tin  kitchenette  and  the 
bottle  of  40  percent,  alcohol  that  went  with  it  — if  experience  proved  I 
could  trust  him  with  that  — leaving  me,  thanks  also  to  the  offer  of  a 
fellow-countryman  to  carry  the  developing-tanks  to  Santa  Cruz  on  his 
cargo-mule,  only  a moderate  load.  I should  have  bought  a donkey,  or 
another  chusco,  rather  than  turn  ourselves  into  pack-animals,  but  for 
two  reasons : first,  such  a purchase  would  have  relieved  me  of  most  of 
the  billetes  I had  left ; secondly,  the  fate  of  “ Cleopatra  ” and  “ Chus- 
quito  ” caused  me  to  doubt  whether  any  four-footed  animal  could 
endure  the  journey. 

It  was  two  months  from  the  day  I had  walked  into  Cuzco  that  one 
of  Cochabamba’s  toy  trains  carried  us  past  adobe  towns  and  mud 
fences,  with  dome-shaped  huts  that  gave  the  scene  an  oriental  touch, 
and  set  us  down  in  Punata  in  time  for  dinner  in  the  picanteria  where 
Tommy  had  once  before  washed  down  a similar  plate  of  stringy  roast 
pork  with  a glass  of  chicha.  Then  we  swung  on  our  packs  and 
struck  eastward  into  the  unknown. 

Beyond  Arani  next  morning  came  the  real  parting  of  the  ways. 
The  trail  that  swung  to  the  right  along  the  base  of  the  hills  went  on  to 
Sucre  and  the  silver  mountain ; that  by  which  we  zigzagged  up  the 
face  of  a stony  range  led  across  the  continent.  Here  the  mountains 
closed  in,  and  the  vast,  fertile,  yet  dreary  and  desolate  plain  of  Cocha- 
bamba, that  had  seemed  to  stretch  out  interminably  in  the  brilliant  sun- 
shine, disappeared  at  length  below  a swell  of  land  and  was  lost  for- 
ever behind  us. 

For  a week  the  going  was  not  unlike  that  down  the  Andes,  though 
it  grew  gradually  lower  as  the  endless  ridges  of  the  eastern  slope 
calmed  down  slowly,  like  the  waves  of  some  tempestuous  sea.  It  was 
only  on  the  road  that  I began  really  to  make  the  acquaintance  of 
Tommy.  In  spite  of  his  Canadian  birth  he  dressed  like  a Liverpool 
dock-laborer,  with  a heavy  cap,  a kerchief  about  his  neck,  and  a heavy 
winter  vest  — that  is,  “ w’stc’t  ” — which  he  could  not  be  induced  to 
shed,  however  hot  the  climate,  though  he  readily  enough  removed  his 
coat.  He  spoke  with  a strong  “ English  accent,”  and  a man  following 
behind  with  a basket  could  have  picked  up  enough  H’s  to  have  started 

522 


ON  FOOT  ACROSS  TROPICAL  BOLIVIA 


a supply^store  of  those  scarce  articles  in  Whitechapel  itself.  He  had 
given  Cochabamba  ample  opportunity  to  show  its  gratitude  at  his 
departure,  but  the  fourteen  bolivianos  of  his  last  eleemosynary  glean- 
ings turned  out  to  be  barely  sufficient  to  keep  him  in  cigarettes  on  the 
journey.  His  share  of  the  load  he  carried  in  the  half  of  a hectic  table- 
cloth, of  mysterious  origin,  tied  across  his  chest,  as  an  Indian  woman 
carries  her  latest  offspring.  His  own  possessions  consisted  wholly  and 
exclusively  of  a large,  sharp-pointed,  proudly-scoured  trowel;  for 
Tommy  was  by  profession  a bricklayer  and  mason.  This  general  con- 
venience, weapon,  sign  of  caste,  and  hope  of  better  days  to  come,  he 
wore  through  the  band  of  his  trousers,  as  the  Bolivian  peon  carries  his 
long  knife,  and  the  services  it  performed  were  unlimited.  I was  never 
nearer  throwing  my  kodak  into  a mud-hole  than  when  it  failed  to 
catch  Tommy  solemnly  eating  soft-boiled  eggs  with  the  point  of  his 
faithful  trowel. 

The  hospitality  of  the  Bolivian  soon  proved  low,  even  in  comparison 
with  the  rest  of  the  Andes,  and  every  meal  and  lodging  cost  us  a 
struggle.  At  Pocona,  for  example,  I ended  a 36-mile  walk  down  the 
nose  of  a range  on  which  a coach  road  descended  by  never-ending  S’s 
to  a narrow  valley  bottom  below.  Tommy  had  fallen  behind,  and  I 
had  begun  to  wonder  whether  he  could  endure  the  pace  our  scantiness 
of  funds  made  necessary.  As  I debouched  into  the  grass-grown  plaza, 
I paused  to  ask  a dim-minded  person  drowsing  before  one  of  the 
doors  where  one  could  find  a night’s  lodging.  He  silently  projected  his 
lips  toward  a building  before  which  stood  the  empty  stage-coach. 
There  a group  of  supercilious,  unwashed  cholos  of  varying  stages  of 
insobriety  informed  me,  with  an  air  that  plainly  said  “ We  are  pur- 
posely deceiving  you,”  first,  that  there  was  no  tambo  in  town,  then 
that  there  was  accommodation  only  for  travelers  “ a bestia.” 

“For  horsemen  only,  eh?”  I cried,  in  the  voice  natural  to  an  all- 
day fast.  “Where  does  the  corregidor  live?”  What  are  goberna- 
dores  in  Peru  become  corregidores  in  Bolivia. 

“ Down  the  street,”  mouthed  a half-drunken  fellow,  with  a lazy 
toss  of  the  head  in  no  particular  direction. 

I snatched  a youth  out  of  the  group  and  pushed  him  before  me. 
Some  way  down  the  foot-torturing  cobbles  he  halted  at  the  open  door 
of  the  usual  slatternly,  earth-floored  room,  saying: 

“ The  corregidor  lives  here.” 

“ Go  in  and  fetch  him,”  I answered,  blocking  his  attempted  retreat. 
He  called  out  two  or  three  times  in  the  singsong  with  which  neighbors 

523 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


greet  neighbors  in  the  Andes,  then  obeyed  my  order  to  enter  and  sum- 
mon the  “ authority  ” — at  least  he  disappeared  inside  the  building. 
Some  time  later  two  chola  girls  appeared  at  the  door  to  ask  in  pre- 
tended surprise  what  I desired. 

“Where  is  the  corregidor?” 

“ He  is  in  the  country.  He  does  n’t  live  here,”  they  replied  re- 
spectively in  one  breath,  betraying  themselves  by  their  carelessness  in 
not  rehearsing  the  reply  before  appearing. 

“ Where  is  the  boy  who  brought  me  here  ? ” 

“ Escapado  — he  escaped  — through  the  back  door.” 

I had  long  ago  learned  this  trick  of  local  “ authorities  ” in  Andean 
villages  of  hiding  away  at  the  approach  of  a stranger  bearing  orders 
from  the  government,  and  the  complicity  of  all  the  population  in  the 
concealment.  But  I had  learned,  also,  one  means  of  bringing  him  to 
light.  I marched  into  the  house  and,  throwing  my  pack  on  an  adobe 
divan  covered  with  blankets,  announced  that  I should  sleep  there. 
The  cholas  would  call  the  corregidor  at  once,  they  had  called  him,  they 
could  n’t  call  him,  he  was  coming  in  a minute,  he  did  not  live  in  town, 
and  a dozen  other  falsehoods  poured  in  a chaotic  flood  from  their  lips. 
For  an  hour  I held  to  the  divan.  But  as  evening  settled  down,  it  be- 
came evident  that  the  ruse  of  Peru  would  not  work  in  Bolivia;  that 
though  I might  sleep  there  by  force,  I should  remain  thirsty  and 
hungry.  I shouldered  my  bundle  and  hobbled  back  to  the  plaza. 
There  ten  centavos  spent  for  chicha  convinced  the  sceptical  inhabitants 
that  I was  not  penniless,  and  in  time  it  paved  the  way  to  a request  for 
food. 

“Como  no?”  came  the  mechanical  answer,  and  a long  time  after 
dark  a big  bowl  of  broth,  luke-warm  of  temperature  but  sizzling  hot 
with  aji,  was  followed  by  some  hashed  black  chuno,  or  frozen  potatoes, 
mixed  with  an  egg,  and  some  bran-like  bread. 

“ How  much  do  I owe?”  I asked  when  I finished. 

“ Pues  — ah  — sera  setenta  centavos.” 

“ Esta  bien.  And  who  is  going  to  sleep  on  those  beds?”  I con- 
tinued, pointing  to  the  long  adobe  divans,  each  with  a roll  of  thin 
mattress  and  blankets,  at  either  end  of  the  room. 

“ Nadie.” 

“ No  one?  How  much  do  you  charge  for  a bed?  ” 

“ Un  boliviano,  no  mas,”  replied  the  chola  in  that  droning,  soothing 
voice  in  which  the  Andean  always  names  an  exorbitant  price  which  he 
knows  the  traveler  cannot  refuse  to  pay.  “ Voy  a tender,  no?” 

524 


ON  FOOT  ACROSS  TROPICAL  BOLIVIA 


“ Yes,  spread  it  out.” 

I was  stripping  to  crawl  into  the  “ star  ” bed  of  the  tambo  — in  which 
only  horsemen  are  accommodated  — when  there  sounded  at  the  door  I 
had  fastened  ajar  with  a bench,  the  worn  and  humble  voice  of  Tommy. 
Having  fallen  behind  because  of  a half-sprained  ankle,  he  had  stum- 
bled on  into  town  down  that  stony,  looping  descent  which  I had  found 
bad  enough  even  by  day.  Fortunately  there  was  a bit  of  cold  broth 
and  some  chuno  left,  after  devouring  which  he  turned  in  on  the  other 
divan. 

Next  day  we  passed  a wind-blown,  rain-gashed  plain,  with  a few 
huts  on  which  to  practice  my  neglected  Quiehua  and,  early  in  the 
afternoon,  reached  Totora,  so  named  from  a long  rush  which  grows  in 
swampy  ground.  It  is  the  largest  town  between  Cochabamba  and 
Santa  Cruz  and  capital  of  a province,  with  several  thousand  inhabitants. 
Set  in  a hollow  of  the  treeless  hills,  it  was  dreary  and  colorless  as  a 
mining  town,  with  breakneck  cobbled  streets,  and  a little  tile-paved 
plaza  surrounded  by  what  Tommy  called  “drapers’  shops,”  all  with 
the  selfsame  display  of  bayeta  and  other  crude-colored  cloths.  The 
vista  of  many  a street  was  enlivened  by  swinging  red  signs,  like 
Japanese  or  Chinese  banners,  above  the  doors  where  chicha  was  for 
sale.  Far  better,  and  almost  given  away  in  Colombia,  this  native  drink 
had  come  to  cost  twice  what  a larger  glass  of  beer  would  in  the 
United  States.  In  the  upper  corner  of  the  plaza  we  spread  ourselves 
at  ease  on  a shaded  bench.  Around  the  pila  in  the  center  of  the  square 
a constant  crowd  carrying  earthen  jars  fought  for  the  two  trickles  of 
water.  Behind  us  stood  what  dared  to  call  itself  the  “ Hotel  Union,” 
consisting  of  a billiard-table  and  an  absent  proprietor,  who,  according 
to  the  disinterested  cholas,  might  be  back  during  the  evening  to  dis- 
cuss with  us  our  offer  to  spend  the  night  with  him.  The  neighboring 
tambo  was  closed  “ because  of  a wedding  in  the  family,”  so  rare  a 
ceremony  in  Bolivia  that  we  had  not  the  heart  to  complain.  Tommy 
tired  of  sitting,  and  went  to  lie  down  in  frank  “ hobo  ” fashion  in  the 
plaza  band-stand.  As  dusk  came  on  we  made  a round  of  the  shops, 
warned  that  there  would  be  none  for  some  days  ahead.  We  bought 
eggs,  and  blocks  of  crude  sugar,  now  called  empanada,  coca  to  chew 
when  thirsty,  several  loaves  of  the  bran-like  bread  that  weighed  us 
down  like  grindstones,  and  some  shelled  peanuts  which  we  found  next 
day  to  be  unroasted.  Any  chip  of  stone  or  scrap  of  iron  served  as 
weights  in  the  shops,  though  some  had  brass  cups  full  of  shot,  over 
which  a paper  was  pasted  by  the  rare  government  inspector,  soon  to 

525 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


“ break  itself  ” until  he  came  again.  That  purchaser  who  got  twelve 
ounces  to  his  pound  was  as  lucky  as  the  one  whose  vara  came  any- 
where near  being  a yard  long.  A half-pound  weight  was  commonly 
the  heaviest  on  hand,  and  the  old  woman  who  sold  us  sugar  poured 
that  amount  in  with  the  weight  in  the  other  side  of  the  scales,  and  so 
on  until  she  had  made  up  the  unprecedented  quantity  we  demanded. 

A telegraph  wire  strode  bandy-legged  over  the  hills  with  us  on  the 
twenty  broken  and  panting  miles  to  Duraznillo.  Across  a flanking 
valley  the  range  was  mottled  with  all  colors  from  deep  red  to  Nile- 
green,  the  depths  of  its  gullies  purple  under  dense  cloud-shadows, 
while  all  the  rest  of  the  world  lay  in  brilliant  sunshine,  and  vast 
banks  of  snowy-white  clouds  took  on  fantastic  shapes  which  the  imag- 
ination could  animate  into  all  manner  of  strange  beings,  or  people  with 
innumerable  plots  and  fairy-tales.  One  mighty  descent  brought  us  to 
a “ river,”  but  at  the  very  moment  we  reached  it,  it  turned  suddenly 
muddy  from  rains  somewhere  in  the  hills  above  and  spoiled  our  plan 
for  a “bathe,”  as  Tommy  expressed  it.  In  the  dry,  burning  hills 
beyond,  my  companion  went  astray,  but  found  himself  again  by  fol- 
lowing my  hob-nailed  footsteps.  He  had  so  little  initiative  that  he 
would  not  lead  the  way,  and  his  favorite  plan  of  plodding  at  my  very 
heels  having  been  vetoed,  as  he  did  not  mix  well  with  the  landscape, 
he  commonly  trailed  a half-mile  behind,  usually  taking  care  not  to  lose 
sight  of  me. 

Duraznillo  had  a public  “ rest-house  ” that  had  once  been  an  adobe 
chapel,  but  which  was  now  as  bare  as  a millionaire’s  room  in  heaven. 
I boiled  oatmeal  and  eggs  in  the  water  Tommy  brought  from  a stag- 
nant pool  not  far  away,  but  waited  in  vain  for  the  return  of  the  only 
European-clad  resident,  who  had  volunteered  to  “ arrange  us.”  As 
the  shades  of  night  spread,  the  beaten-mud  floor  looked  harder  and 
harder,  and  in  nosing  about  we  were  astonished  to  discover  several 
once-imported  mattresses  covering  a pile  of  adobe  bricks  in  the  back 
corredor  of  the  chief  house  of  the  village,  apparently  uninhabited. 
Still,  it  was  possible  that  the  local  “ authority  ” would  in  time  come  out 
of  hiding,  and  we  lolled  patiently,  if  road-weary,  in  the  moonlight. 

We  had  waited  until  — well,  perhaps  eight,  though  without  a 
watch  it  seemed  hours  later,  when  patience  ceased  to  be  a virtue,  and 
we  slipped  through  a hole  in  the  mud  fence,  each  to  embrace  a mat- 
tress. It  may  be  that  a trap  had  been  set  for  us.  As  we  approached 
the  wall  again,  an  unusually  large  half-Indian,  wrapped  in  a poncho, 
loomed  up  on  the  other  side,  and  shouted  in  an  authoritative  voice : 

526 


ON  FOOT  ACROSS  TROPICAL  BOLIVIA 


“ What  are  you  doing  inside  that  fence  ? ” 

Now  I do  not  like  any  man  to  address  me  in  that  tone,  least  of  all 
a South  American  Indian.  It  is  neither  good  training  for  his  own 
primitive  character  nor  advantageous  to  future  gringo  travelers. 

“ Speaking  to  me,  indio  ? ” I demanded. 

“ I am  corregidor  of  Duraznillo,  also  guardian  of  this  house.” 

“ Corregidor ! Then  you  are  the  very  fellow  we  have  been  looking 
for  these  last  four  hours.  You  will  kindly  lend  us  two  mattresses  to 
sleep  on.” 

“ I will  not  lend  you  one  mattress  to  sleep  on.  What  are  you 
doing  ? ” 

Plainly  he  was  of  Aymara  rather  than  meek  Quichua  blood. 

“ And  where  have  you  been  hiding  yourself,  senor  corregidor?  We 
have  a letter  for  you  from  the  government.” 

“ Ugh ! ” he  snorted,  with  an  effort  at  sarcasm.  “ Let ’s  see  that 
letter  from  the  government.” 

“ It  is  in  my  pack  in  the  chapel.” 

“ Bring  it  over  here.” 

“ Since  when  have  caballeros  run  after  Indians  to  show  them  gov- 
ernment orders  ? Are  you  going  to  lend  us  two  mattresses  ? ” 

“ Not  one  ! ” 

“ Tommy,  chuck  them  over.” 

He  did  so  with  trembling  hands,  for  something  had  given  the  dimin- 
utive bricklayer  an  extraordinary  respect  for  “ authorities.”  The 
corregidor  followed  at  our  heels,  bellowing,  as  we  carried  our  finds  into 
the  ex-chapel  and  spread  them  out.  A stocky  youth  and  a woman  with 
a flickering  candle  appeared  behind  him  in  the  doorway,  and  the 
Indian  demanded  my  papers. 

“ Can  you  read?”  I asked. 

“ I can,”  he  snarled ; which  he  could,  to  the  extent  of  spelling  out 
the  order  at  about  a line  a minute. 

“ Bien,”  he  admitted  at  last,  in  a surly  voice,  “ but  you  are  to  ask 
for  things,  not  take  them.” 

“ From  a corregidor  who  hides  himself?  ” 

“ And  the  prefect  orders  that  you  be  furnished  what  you  need  at  a 
just  price,”  he  added  triumphantly,  ignoring  my  reply. 

“ Exactly.” 

“ Then  you  will  pay  two  bolivianos  for  each  mattress.” 

“ Very  well ; but  you  will  first  make  out  a receipt  for  that  amount, 
that  I may  send  it  back  to  the  prefect.” 

527 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


It  was  not  the  first  time  I had  played  this  unfailing  card  against  an 
Andean  “ authority  ” attempting  extortion.  He  knew  he  was  beaten ; 
for  though  he  could  read,  after  a Bolivian  fashion,  he  probably  could 
not  write,  and  certainly  would  not  dare  let  such  a document  reach  the 
prefect.  Like  a true  Latin-American,  however,  he  saved  his  face  as 
long  as  possible : 

“ Very  well,  give  me  some  paper  to  write  it  on.” 

“ As  corregidor,  you  should  furnish  your  own  paper.  I have  none.” 

“ Well,  you  may  use  one  mattress,  but  not  two,”  he  growled. 

“ You  lose.  In  my  country  we  are  not  accustomed  to  sleep  two  on 
the  same  mattress.” 

A shiver  of  rage  seemed  to  pass  over  him,  while  his  Castilian  pride 
struggled  for  expression  behind  his  mask  of  Indian  features.  Then 
he  faded  away  into  the  night  and  was  heard  no  more,  though  I was  not 
so  certain  of  him  as  not  to  prop  a heavy  wooden  beam  against  the 
door  in  such  a way  that  an  attempt  to  sneak  in  upon  us  during  the 
night  would  quite  likely  have  been  followed  in  the  morning  by  the 
intruder’s  funeral. 

Never-ending  spiral  descents,  so  steep  we  had  to  set  the  brakes  con- 
stantly, making  our  thighs  ache,  brought  us  at  last  to  a hot  and  stony 
river-bed  across  which  a luke-warm,  knee-deep  “ river  ” snaked  its 
way  incessantly.  We  stuffed  leggings  and  Fusslappcn  into  our  bun- 
dles and  walked  all  the  rest  of  the  day  barefoot  in  our  unlaced  boots, 
crossing  the  stream  perhaps  a hundred  times,  and  envying  the  hoof- 
soled  natives  as  often  as  we  paused  to  pull  on  our  footwear.  Tommy 
found  it  too  much  trouble  to  roll  down  his  trousers  after  each  cross- 
ing, and  complained  of  sunburned  legs  for  days  to  come.  But  at  least 
the  going  was  level.  The  stillness  and  lack  of  population  recalled 
Jaen  in  the  far  north  of  Peru.  For  hours  we  tramped  stonily  between 
ever  lower  cactus-grown  hills,  only  the  mournful  note  of  the  jungle- 
dove  breaking  the  silence.  The  first  gnats  and  giant-jawed  insects 
we  were  doomed  to  endure  more  and  more  as  we  advanced  to  the  east- 
ward began  to  annoy  us.  As  scrub  trees  thickened,  bird  life  grew 
more  prevalent.  Bands  of  parrakeets  screamed  by,  as  always  along 
these  dry,  tropical  river-beds ; now  and  then  a parrot  or  two,  fore- 
runners of  many  to  come,  passed  overhead.  The  rare  huts  squatting 
in  scant  patches  of  shade  were  now  of  mere  open-work  poles.  To 
sleep  in  them  was  far  less  inviting  than  to  lie  on  the  ground  under  a 
shrub. 

But  the  Andes  did  not  subside  so  easily.  Next  morning  the  trail 

528 


“Sandy”  leading  his  train  of  carts  loaded  with  construction  material  for  the  railroad  to 

Cochabamba 


The  “gringo  bench”  of  Cochabamba, — left  to  right,  “Old  Man  Simpson;”  Tommy  Cox; 
Sampson,  the  Cockney;  Owen,  and  Scribner 


ON  FOOT  ACROSS  TROPICAL  BOLIVIA 


shook  off  the  river  and  climbed  wearily  to  a wind-swept  puna,  then 
dropped  by  a leg-straining  bajada  into  another  canon  with  a muddy, 
lukewarm  brook,  only  to  pant  upward  again  to  another  summit. 
Several  times  each  day  we  sweated  to  a hilltop  and  lay  down  in  a cool 
breeze  we  should  not  often  enjoy  in  the  days  to  come.  Range  back  of 
blue  range  spread  away  into  ever-bluer,  purple  distance.  The  region 
recalled  the  Malay  Peninsula  — with  all  its  romance  rubbed  off  and 
even  more  inhospitable  inhabitants  tucked  away  in  the  undergrowth. 
Yet  surely,  if  slowly,  the  Andes  were  flattening  down,  and  each  sum- 
mit was  less  lofty  than  the  preceding. 

One  afternoon  passing  arrieros  told  us  that  three  of  our  paisanos 
were  not  far  ahead.  We  increased  our  pace  and  strode  at  five,  with 
thirty  miles  in  our  legs,  into  the  miserable  mud  town  of  Chilon.  In 
the  corral  and  corredor  back  through  one  of  the  dismal  dwellings  we 
found,  camped  with  their  four  mules,  the  American  prospectors,  Scrib- 
ner, Kimball,  and  Owen,  who  had  burdened  themselves  with  my 
developing-tank.  We  foraged  together.  These  interior  villages  are 
less  useful  to  the  seeker  after  supplies  than  a lone  country  hut,  for 
in  them  each  native  “ passes  the  buck  ” by  sending  the  inquirer  on  to 
someone  else.  The  traveler  who  has  lived  for  days  chiefly  on  the 
anticipation  of  what  he  will  eat  in  the  town  he  has  been  assured  is 
“ provided  with  everything,”  is  fortunate  to  collect  the  ingredients  of 
even  one  real  meal,  and  that  only  at  the  expense  of  wandering  from 
door  to  door,  like  a Buddhist  priest  with  his  begging-bowl.  Chilon 
was  even  more  anemic  and  indifferent  than  usual.  It  is  rated  the  most 
fever-stricken  region  of  Bolivia,  and  the  government  has  striven  in 
vain  to  drive  out  the  almost  universal  chucho  by  planting  the  eucalyp- 
tus and  sending  doctors  to  study  its  cause.  The  only  water  to  be  had 
was  a yellow  liquid  mud  dipped  up  in  the  back  yard.  Kimball  pre- 
pared to  cook  in  it  some  of  the  charqui  he  had  bought  at  blockade 
prices,  only  to  bring  to  light  a swarm  of  maggots.  A can  of  peaches 
from  Chile  — some  time  in  the  last  century  — cost  two  bolivianos; 
four  ounces  of  tea,  a boliviano,  a pound  of  sugar  as  much,  and  at  that 
it  was  a coarse,  dirty,  stony  stuff,  so  hard  an  ax  was  required  to  break 
it.  One  slattern  a bit  less  sullen  in  aspect  than  the  town  in  general 
asked  if  we  “ knew  how  ” to  eat  mote  and  charol.  We  assured  her  we 
knew  how  to  eat  anything  we  could  get  our  fingers  on,  and  she  set  be- 
fore us  a single  plate  of  boiled  shelled  corn  and  little  cubes  of  fried  fat 
pork,  which  we  ate  with  the  spoons  nature  had  provided  us.  In  the 
entire  town  we  gleaned  two  whole  eggs.  Most  of  the  huts  that  dis- 

529 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


played  them  answered  with  that  clumsy  old  Andean  lie,  “ Son  ajenos 
— They  belong  to  some  one  else.”  A woman  squatting  behind  one  of 
the  huts  admitted  she  had  eggs  to  sell,  but  said  she  did  not  feel  like 
getting  up  to  sell  them.  That  was  the  attitude  of  all  Chilon.  It  may 
be  that  the  hookworm,  as  well  as  the  chucho,  was  prevalent. 

When  I awoke  at  dawn,  Kimball,  in  retaliation  for  the  state  of  the 
charqui,  had  already  picked  a chicken  from  one  of  the  trees  in  the 
corral  and  managed  to  stuff  it  into  his  alforjas  without  a squawk. 
By  the  time  we  were  off,  it  began  to  rain.  A half-sand,  half-mud  road 
splashed  and  skated  away  through  semi-tropical  scrub  woods,  caking 
our  feet  with  glue-like  mud,  and  soaking  our  garments  from  both  inside 
and  out.  In  spite  of  the  rain  the  tropical  heat  weighed  down  upon 
us  like  water-logged  blankets,  and  nowhere  was  there  water  to  drink. 
Rarely  among  the  spiny  scrub  trees  we  came  upon  a miserable  hut  of 
poles  and  sticks,  in  each  of  which  lounged  a dozen  or  so  of  the 
colorless,  mongrel  natives  of  the  region.  Rancho  was  being  cooked 
in  one  such  hovel,  and  though  the  householders  showed  no  joy,  or  any 
other  species  of  emotion,  at  our  presence,  when  the  meal  was  ready,  a 
small  wash-basin  of  rice,  charqui,  and  pepper  stew  was  set  on  the 
ground  before  us,  and  we  were  each  silently  handed  a wooden  spoon. 
There  was,  of  course,  no  bread,  but  a gourd  bowl  of  mote  was  added 
for  our  competition.  This  was  one  contest  in  which  Tommy  was 
easily  my  superior.  The  languid,  fever-yellow  chola  would  not  ac- 
cept payment  for  the  food,  though  she  did  so  readily  enough  for  the 
chica  we  had  drunk,  calling  up  to  Tommy  far-off  memories  of  the 
land  of  “ free  lunch,”  so  that  several  times  during  the  blazing  after- 
noon I heard  his  sheet-iron  voice  torturing  the  wilderness  behind  me 
with  his  own  version  of  a one-time  Broadway  favorite : 

“ .Stake  me  back  to  New  York  town.  . . .” 

Not  two  hours  beyond  we  drifted  into  a saw-mill  hacienda,  and  be- 
fore I knew  it  Tommy  had  told  his  tale  so  feelingly  to  the  Italian 
owner,  who  had  the  misfortune  to  understand  a little  English,  that  we 
must  go  in  and  have  a plate  of  cold  spaghetti,  imported  to  these  wilds 
at  nerve-shaking  prices.  Best  of  all,  after  nothing  better  than  liquid 
mud  for  days,  was  several  glasses  of  almost  clear  water.  The  Italian 
was  bubbling  over  about  some  new  invention  by  one  of  his  countrymen 
that  would  forever  abolish  war.  Half  the  world  might  be  abolished 
without  our  hearing  of  it  in  these  wilds.  Before  we  left  he  inquired 
whether  we  had  quinine,  and  forced  upon  Tommy  a box  of  pills,  with 
the  urgent  advice  to  take  one  every  morning.  I had  already  begun  to 

530 


ON  FOOT  ACROSS  TROPICAL  BOLIVIA 


dose  myself  daily,  but  was  never  able  to  convince  my  companion  that 
ills  might  be  forestalled  far  more  easily  than  they  could  be  ousted  after 
they  had  staked  their  claims. 

It  was  December  21,  the  longest  day  of  the  year,  and  the  sun  was 
still  high  when  we  again  overtook  our  “ paisanos,”  camped  this  time 
along  a brick-floored  corredor  under  the  projecting  eaves  of  a large 
tile-roofed  hacienda-house,  among  scrub  trees  and  scattered  huts  to  the 
right  of  the  trail.  The  building  was  imposing  for  the  region,  for  the 
owner  held  title  to  a vast  tract  and  many  cattle.  I recalled  the  plump 
hospitality  of  many  a similar  hacendado  of  Peru,  but  was  quickly 
reminded  that  we  were  in  Bolivia.  Our  “ paisanos  ” had  already 
eaten.  Having  come  on  foot,  Tommy  and  I were  too  low  caste  to  be 
invited  into  the  brick-floored  dining-room  with  the  swarming  family. 
After  much  reconnoitering  I found  a hut  where  a lean  chicken  could 
be  bought  at  a high  price,  and  the  senora  of  the  hacienda  grudgingly 
agreed  to  have  her  servants  cook  it.  Here,  too,  the  only  water  was  a 
thick  yellow  liquid  flowing  behind  the  house  and  common  to  all  its 
animals.  At  sight  of  it  we  had  abandoned  our  plan  to  bathe,  yet  we 
must  drink  it  and  cook  in  it.  The  apathy  of  life  in  these  parts  is  ex- 
emplified by  the  fact  that  an  hacendado  of  comparative  wealth  will 
drink  mud  all  his  life,  rather  than  dig  a well. 

Long  after  dark  an  unwashed  chola  came  waddling  into  the  corre- 
dor with  a single  bowl  of  charqui  stew  and  two  wooden  spoons. 
Tommy  fell  upon  this  gratefully,  as  he  would  have  upon  a bone  dis- 
carded by  a dog.  Personally  I was  not  pleased  with  the  metamorpho- 
sis the  fowl  had  undergone,  and  calling  out  the  haughty  hacendado,  I 
thrust  a handful  of  bills  toward  him,  asking  if  he  could  not  sell  us 
something  fit  to  eat,  even  if  he  did  want  the  chicken  for  himself.  The 
hint  caused  him  to  turn  a livid  green.  These  landowners  of  the  in- 
terior, too  “ proud  ” to  sell  food  to  travelers,  are  yet  too  tight-fisted  to 
give  it  away ; and  a lifetime  on  their  own  broad,  if  worthless,  acres, 
with  only  a few  cringing  Indians  about  them,  lording  it  over  even  their 
own  women,  causes  them  to  consider  themselves  vastly  superior  to  all 
mankind,  and  to  treat  travelers  accordingly.  So  thoroughly  had  I 
ruffled  his  pomposity  that  the  fellow,  visibly  shaking  with  anger,  went 
to  sit  under  a scraggly  tree  in  the  grassless  sand  before  the  house 
and  rage  in  silence,  then  took  to  pacing  back  and  forth,  in  and  out  of 
the  building,  and  kept  it  up  until  well  into  the  morning.  He  might 
have  vented  his  rage  more  effectually,  for  law  has  but  slight  foothold 
in  these  wild  regions,  but  for  the  half-dozen  revolvers,  rifles,  and  pis- 

531 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


tols  lying  about  us  in  the  corredor.  Meanwhile  a servant  brought  my 
chicken  in  a pot,  and  though  it  was  tougher  than  life  in  Bolivia,  we 
drank  the  broth  and  hung  the  remnants  of  the  fowl  to  a rafter  above 
our  heads,  out  of  reach  of  dogs,  Indians,  or  ants. 

It  rained  most  of  the  night,  .and  the  wood  we  could  find  in  the  chill 
slate-tinted  dawn  was  so  wet  that  it  was  a good  hour  before  we  boiled 
tea  and  rice  in  the  yellow  mud  — and  coaxed  Tommy  to  get  up  in  time 
to  eat.  Barely  two  hundred  yards  beyond,  we  came  to  the  muddy 
river,  must  unshoe  the  feet  we  had  just  carefully  shod  for  the  day, 
and  h^  a provoking  task  dressing  them  again  on  the  mud-reeking 
further  bank.  Tommy  went  to  hunt  cigarettes  — which  are  to  be  had 
in  these  parts  only  by  inquiring  at  each  hut  until  one  has  found  some 
old  woman  who  has  inadvertently  rolled  a dozen  or  two  beyond  her 
own  consumption  — and  it  was  hours  later  that  he  overtook  me.  We 
undulated  on  over  half-sandy  country,  a thorn-tree  desert  without 
sight  or  sound  of  human  life,  grown  writh  thousands  of  immense  cac- 
tus trees  of  the  pipe-organ  species  from  which  fell  myriads  of  tunas, 
an  “ apple  ” Tommy  called  it,  the  outer  spines  of  which  fall  off  when 
ripe,  the  juicy  interior,  full  of  tiny  black  seeds,  with  mildly  the  taste 
of  strawberries,  effective  at  least  in  quenching  the  thirst. 

At  i.  scattered  cluster  of  huts  called  Mataral  we  found  a group  of 
drunken  Indians,  male  and  female,  celebrating  the  customary  wake  in 
and  about  a hut  where  a baby  had  died.  The  corpse  of  the  angelito 
lay  pale-yellow  and  half  naked  on  a bare,  home-made  table,  a lighted 
candle  on  either  side  of  its  head,  its  nostrils  stuffed  with  cotton,  and 
already  beginning  to  make  its  presence  known  to  another  of  the  five 
senses,  while  all  about  the  premises  rolled  maudlin,  fishy-eyed  half- 
breeds,  only  too  glad  of  any  excuse  for  consuming  gallons  of  overripe 
chicha.  Outside,  a half-sober  cholo  was  piecing  a coffin  together  from 
the  odds  and  ends  of  boxes  that  had  once  held  foreign  imports.  The 
priest’s  assurance  that  infants,  properly  baptized,  go  directly  to  heaven 
makes  such  a death  the  cause  almost  for  rejoicing  among  the  ignorant 
population  of  Bolivia,  even  if  it  leads  to  nothing  worse  than  passive 
infanticide. 

Frequent  ridges  and  a stream  that  forced  us  to  unshoe  and  shoe  a 
score  of  times,  reddening  our  legs  where  our  leggings  should  have 
been,  decidedly  reduced  our  pace.  Not  without  surprise,  therefore, 
did  I sight  at  dusk,  among  the  trees  on  a low  bluff  across  a nearly 
waterless  river-bed,  a village  of  moderate  size,  thirty  miles  from  where 
we  had  started  in  the  morning.  It  was  Pampa  Grande.  My  fellow- 

532 


ON  FOOT  ACROSS  TROPICAL  BOLIVIA 


countrymen  had  already  commandeered  a mud  room  on  a corner  of  the 
second  street,  and  chucked  their  possessions  pell-mell  into  it.  Among 
the  luxuries  the  place  offered  was  bread,  soggy  and  gritty,  dark  of 
complexion  as  the  inhabitants,  but  bread  for  all  that.  While  we  were 
swallowing  chunks  of  this  and  of  empanada,  some  one  discovered  that 
it  was  Christmas  Eve.  A celebration  was  imperative.  Kimball  dug 
up  an  ancient  fife  from  his  pack,  I still  possessed  a battered  mouth- 
organ,  and  all  but  Owen,  who  had  none,  lent  their  voices  to  the  lusty, 
if  not  musical,  carols  that  astonished  the  apathetic  hamlet  so  thor- 
oughly that  a few  found  energy  to  gather  in  a drooping  group  in  the 
noiseless  street  outside.  We  ended  with  our  patriotic  anthem,  in  the 
midst  of  which  Kimball’s  fife  suddenly  broke  off  its  wail  long  enough 
for  him  to  assure  Tommy: 

“ Here,  young  feller,  don’t  get  it  into  your  nut  that ’s  ‘ Gawd  save 
no  King  ’ we  ’re  treatin’  these  greasers  to ! ” 

The  prospectors  pushed  on  in  the  morning,  but  finding  ourselves 
a day  ahead  of  our  schedule,  and  that  we  could  still  reach  Santa  Cruz 
before  the  end  of  the  year,  we  decided  to  spend  Christmas  in  Pampa 
Grande.  It  was  ideal  Christmas  weather.  The  village  stands  on  the 
eighteenth  parallel,  at  an  altitude  of  some  4000  feet,  giving  it  a soft 
midsummer  air,  with  a caressing  breeze  and  a most  restful  atmos- 
phere. Life  had  slowed  down  to  a snail’s  pace.  The  mud-housed 
inhabitants  were  too  indolent  to  make  a noise  or  disturbance ; even 
our  next-door  neighbors  were  too  apathetic  to  come  and  satisfy  their 
curiosity  by  staring  at  us.  Lying  on  the  adobe  couch  under  the  eaves, 
we  could  let  our  eyes  roam  lazily  over  the  surrounding  sandy,  scrub- 
wooded  country  of  unabrupt  hills,  utterly  silent  but  for  the  occasional 
faint  note  of  the  mourning  jungle-dove. 

But  the  all-important  question  was  Christmas  dinner.  The  boyish 
corregidor  was  duly  impressed  by  my  papers,  and  assured  me  we  could 
have  “ anything  we  might  desire.”  I took  him  at  his  word  and  handed 
over  a boliviano  with  a request  for  eggs.  He  called  in  a sandaled  youth 
and  sent  him  away  with  orders  to  round  up  a basketful.  Then  he 
wandered  home.  After  a time  the  youth  came  shuffling  back  to  say 
he  could  not  find  a single  egg;  and  thrust  the  coin  toward  me.  I was 
too  experienced  an  Andean  traveler  to  accept  it  and  thus  absolve  the 
“authorities”  of  any  further  aid.  Blocked  in  his  turn,  the  corregidor 
came  again  in  person  to  suggest  a chicken  at  a boliviano.  My  extrava- 
gance in  accepting  this  offer  startled  him,  but  he  dropped  the  coin 
deftly  into  my  hand  and  hurried  languidly  off,  ostensibly  to  look  for 

533 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


the  fowl,  really  to  sneak  home  by  a roundabout  route.  He  could 
not  be  blamed  much  for  such  conduct.  Appointed  by  force  and  obliged 
to  serve  without  emoluments,  the  rural  “ authority  ” lives  between  two 
millstones,  the  lower  composed  of  his  fellow-townsmen  and  lifelong 
friends,  with  whom  he  must  continue  his  existence,  a far  more  tangible 
and  permanent  reality  than  the  somewhat  nebulous  government  that 
furnishes  travelers  with  imperative  orders  from  far-off  La  Paz  or  Co- 
chabamba. 

But  a Christmas  dinner  is  nothing  to  grow  sentimental  or  sympa- 
thetic about.  When  I had  loafed  and  drowsed  and  read  an  hour  or 
more  longer,  I wandered  a few  yards  up  the  sandy  street  to  the  cor- 
regidor’s  hut. 

“ No,”  he  mourned  regretfully  from  his  hammock,  “ I have  not  been 
able  to  find  a chicken.  Nobody  wants  to  sell.” 

“ But,  senor  corregidor,”  I protested,  “ we  have  n’t  a thing  with 
which  to  make  dinner  — Christmas  dinner,  and  the  Minister  of  the 
Interior  in  La  Paz  told  me  — ” 

The  official  name  brought  him  slowly  from  the  hammock  to  his 
feet,  a worried  look  on  his  face. 

“ Very  well,”  he  sighed,  “ then  we  will  make  you  an  almuerzo  here 
in  my  house,  which  is  your  own.” 

“ Not  at  all,  senor ; we  would  not  dream  of  troubling  you.  But  if 
you  have  wherewith  to  make  an  almuerzo,  let  us  have  the  ingredients 
and  we  will  cook  them  to  suit  ourselves.” 

“ Well,  there  is  charqui  — ” 

“ Don’t  mention  it.  We  don't  want  to  insult  our  stomachs,  even  on 
Christmas.  I was  speaking  of  food.” 

“ Well,  there  is  a house  down  at  the  edge  of  the  river  where  they 
have  killed  a beef  — ” 

“Yes,  three  days  ago;  and  the  lump  of  it  my  compatriots  bought 
this  morning  all  but  lifted  the  roof  off  our  hut.  A slice  carved  out 
of  the  middle  of  it  was  grass-green.  The  yellow  dog  that  picked  up 
both  chunks  of  it  when  we  threw  it  into  the  street  may  have  had  the 
Christmas  dinner  of  his  life,  but  he  is  not  likely  to  see  another.” 

“ Ay,  Dios,  senor,  then  there  is  nothing  else.” 

“ Now,  for  the  good  of  Pampa  Grande,  I advise  you ! There  are 
plenty  of  chickens  in  town.” 

“ The  people  will  not  sell.  The  only  way  is  for  you  to  go  out  and 
shoot  one  with  your  revolver.” 


534 


ON  FOOT  ACROSS  TROPICAL  BOLIVIA 


“ I never  risk  my  aim  on  anything  smaller  than  a bullock.  Car- 
tridges are  expensive  in  the  wilds  of  Bolivia.” 

Such  gringo  persistency  was  annoying.  Native  travelers  needed 
only  to  be  told  the  same  lie  two  or  three  times  before  they  left  him  in 
peace  to  drowse  in  his  hammock.  With  a badly  concealed  sigh  he 
wandered  into  the  street,  and  led  the  way  across  the  noiseless  sanded 
plaza  to  the  house  of  his  friend  the  alcalde.  The  two  conferred  to- 
gether and  finally  sent  out  a cholo  with  orders  to  run  down  a chicken 
— “ anybody’s  at  all.”  The  emissary  returned  by  and  by  to  report 
that  he  could  not  find  one.  The  pair  looked  at  me  as  much  as  to  say, 
“ There,  you  see  the  last  hope  has  failed.”  I ignored  the  hint.  In 
despair  they  called  in  another  cholo  and  with  a mumbled  order  handed 
him  a shotgun.  A long  time  later  a report  was  heard  some  distance 
off.  The  two  officials  shivered.  By  and  by  the  cholo  returned  with 
the  shotgun  and  announced  that  “ it  was  badly  loaded.”  He  said 
nothing  about  the  aiming.  The  officials  looked  at  me  imploringly.  I 
remained  like  a statue  of  patience  seated  on  a cactus.  At  last  the 
alcalde,  with  the  air  of  a member  of  a suicide  club  who  has  drawn  the 
black  bean,  snatched  up  the  gun  and,  calling  upon  the  cholo  to  follow, 
disappeared  into  the  sunshine.  For  a time  only  the  chirp  of  an  insect 
in  the  thatch  above  sounded.  Then  a shot  was  heard,  and  a moment 
later  the  alcalde  dodged  into  the  room  like  a man  pursued  by  bandits, 
thrust  the  weapon  quickly  under  a reed  mat,  and  assumed  his  seat 
and  his  most  innocent  air.  Legally  he  might  shoot  all  his  neighbors’ 
chickens  on  government  order ; practically  he  was  not  anxious  to  be 
seen  at  it.  The  corregidor  looked  sorrowfully  but  appealingly  up  at 
him.  His  voice  was  a weak  whisper : 

“ Yes,  we  got  him.  It  was  Don  Panchito’s  red  one.  No,  the  pul- 
let. No,  none  of  the  family  seemed  to  see  me,  but  quien  sabe?” 

For  a considerable  time  more  nothing  happened.  I began  to  wonder 
if  this,  too,  had  been  a well-acted  ruse.  Now  and  then  the  alcalde 
or  the  corregidor  rose  and  peered  anxiously  down  the  street  through 
the  crack  of  the  door.  Whenever  the  patter  of  footsteps  sounded  out- 
side, the  pair  grew  stiff  with  misgiving. 

Then  suddenly  in  burst  the  cholo,  carrying  under  his  poncho  the 
polio , already  relieved  of  its  feathers,  thus  accounting  for  the  last 
delay.  It  was  a tolerably  plump  bird,  and  the  corregidor  thought  fifty 
centavos  would  be  a just  price.  He  would  give  it  to  Don  Panchito 
to-morrow,  when  his  wrath  had  cooled.  I paid  it  and  hurried  home. 

535 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


There  followed  an  hour’s  wandering  and  pleading,  all  of  which  I must 
do  in  person,  since  Tommy  spoke  no  Spanish,  and  several  more  appeals 
to  the  corregidor  before  I got  lard,  rice,  tiny  potatoes  at  ten  cents  a 
pound,  as  well  as  an  unexpected  bowl  of  what  purported  to  be  stewed 
peaches.  The  pot  the  corregidor  could  lend  us  was  large  enough  for 
an  army.  Tommy,  who  had  once  been  second 'cook  on  board  ship  — 
after  they  had  found  him  — was  appointed  fireman  and  general  assist- 
ant, and  soon  had  the  three-stone  fagot  cook-stove  out  under  the  back 
porch  roaring.  Then  with  plantains  fried  in  lard  and  — But  why 
enumerate?  By  the  time  we  had  fed  the  ragamuffins  at  the  back 
door  and  hung  the  not  yet  empty  kettle  on  the  top  of  a hammock-post, 
even  Tommy’s  inclination  to  make  tea  had  evaporated.  It  may  not 
have  been  a genuine  Christmas  dinner.  Pumpkin  pie,  for  instance, 
was  painfully  conspicuous  by  its  absence.  But  it  produced  the  same 
effect.  While  Tommy  stretched  out  on  a mud  divan,  I spread  my 
poncho  on  the  sand  under  a tree  in  the  back  yard,  where  the  gusts 
of  breeze  came  often  enough  to  lull  me  quickly  into  a siesta. 

I had  barely  fallen  asleep  when  the  chicken-shooter  came  to  “ give 
me  information  about  the  town,”  and  I must  get  up  and  go  back  to 
the  room  with  him.  There  he  picked  up  the  scattered  pages  of  Ibanez’ 
“ Flor  de  Mayo  ” I had  discarded  as  I read,  then  clawed  out  my  copy 
of  a Cochabamba  newspaper.  When  he  had  perused  that  he  took 
to  fingering  my  note-book,  which  fortunately  he  could  not  read,  until 
at  last  in  disgust  I spread  my  poncho  again  on  the  brick  floor  and  was 
soon  sound  asleep.  When  I woke  again  at  sunset  both  informant 
and  information  had  faded  away.  I went  out  on  the  porch  to  write, 
and  a neighbor  came  to  pull  the  note-book  out  of  my  hands  and  sol- 
emnly “ read  ” it,  quite  oblivious  in  his  illiteracy  to  the  fact  that  there 
was  hardly  a word  of  Spanish  in  it,  besides  being  legible  only  to  the 
elect.  Then  he  must  inspect  my  fountain-pen  and  learn  all  its  inner 
secrets.  When  I recovered  it  and  continued  writing  with  what  ink 
was  not  smeared  over  his  person,  he  thrust  his  nose  between  the 
pages,  inquiring: 

“Are  you  noting  all  the  inhabitants  of  Pampa  Grande?” 

“ No.” 

“Ah,  only  the  notable  ones,  then?” 

“ Alas,  no ; you  see  I have  only  a moderate-sized  note-book.” 

In  the  cool  of  evening  the  corregidor  came  again  to  share  his 
troubles  with  me,  bewailing  the  fact  that  Pampa  Grande  no  longer 

536 


The  home  and  family  of  the  alcalde  who  could  not  read 


Our  impromptu  celebration  of  Christmas  Eve  in  Pampa  Grande 


ON  FOOT  ACROSS  TROPICAL  BOLIVIA 


had  a Christmas  celebration,  because  they  had  no  cura.  By  the  same 
token  there  was  no  longer  a public  market  on  Sundays  and  feast-days, 
“ for  the  Indians  only  come  to  town  to  sell  if  there  is  a church  fiesta 
at  which  they  can  drink  chicha.” 

“ God  save  us,”  he  sighed  as  he  rose  to  leave,  “ for  want  of  a priest 
we  are  all  turning  Protestants ! ” 

I respread  my  “ bed  ” early.  But  the  aftermath  of  the  Christmas 
dinner  had  not  yet  run  its  course.  Some  time  far  into  night  I was 
for  a lpng  time  half-conscious  of  some  hubbub,  and  at  last  woke  en- 
tirely. On  his  piece  of  blanket  on  the  floor  Tommy  was  rolling  from 
side  to  side,  in  one  hand  his  precious  trowel,  which  he  was  beating  on 
the  flaggings  until  it  rang  again,  while  shouting  at  the  top  of  his  voice : 

“ Mortar  ! Mortar  ! How  in can  I lay  bricks  if  you  don’t  keep 

me  in  mortar  ? ” 

All  next  day  he  dragged  far  behind  in  the  twenty-five  miles  to 
Samaipata,  second  largest  town  of  this  leg  of  the  journey.  Ahead  of 
us  was  a five-days’  tramp  without  the  suggestion  of  a village,  and  we 
were  forced  to  weigh  ourselves  down  under  such  supplies  as  we  could 
purchase.  Some  two  hours  beyond  Samaipata,  3000  feet  or  more 
above  the  road,  up  the  range  on  the  right,  stands  what  the  natives  of 
the  region  call  “ El  Fuerte.”  Here,  in  a splendid  strategic  position, 
covering  the  flat  top  of  an  entire  hill,  were  and  still  are  extensive 
terraces  and  the  mostly  fallen  remains  of  what  must  have  been  im- 
portant buildings,  now  overgrown  with  brush,  though  there  are  few  or 
no  real  trees.  Scattered  about  this  cold  and  barren  plateau,  some’ 
10,000  feet  above  sea-level,  are  many  carved  seats,  similar  to  those  of 
Cuzco  and  vicinity,  and  figures  cut  in  sandstone,  among  which  jaguars, 
ostriches,  and  other  fauna  of  the  Andes  can  still  be  distinguished, 
though  many  are  time-  and  weather-worn  beyond  identification. 
Practical  miners  who  have  visited  the  spot  report  the  existence  of  ore- 
washing  apparatus  of  hewn  stone.  According  to  tradition  the  Incas 
had  here  their  easternmost  stronghold,  built  by  Yupanqui,  the  emperor 
who  aspired  to  conquer  the  hated  liuara-ni,  the  “ breechless  ” tribes  of 
the  tropical  lowlands.  At  present  “ ELFuerte  ” is  utterly  uninhabited. 
For  many  years  one  aged  Indian  lived  here,  long  reputed  to  be  more 
than  a century  old.  The  people  of  the  region  called  him  “ the  Inca  ” 
and  credited  him  with  supernatural  powers  and  untold  wealth.  The 
usual  rumors  of  hidden  gold  and  jewels,  and  of  subterranean  passages 
from  temple  to  treasure-house,  hover  about  the  place.  So  far  as  is 

537 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


known  the  site  has  never  been  visited,  or  at  least  explored,  by  arch- 
eologists, to  whom  it  might  bring  rewards  not  inferior  to  those  of 
Machu  Picchu. 

As  the  Andes  flattened  down,  ever  slowly  and  as  if  under  protest, 
the  population  showed  more  African  blood ; and  if  the  people  did  not 
grow  more  friendly,  at  least  they  were  less  incommunicative  than 
those  of  the  highlands.  The  women  took  to  smoking,  a custom  almost 
unknown  to  the  sex  on  the  altiplanicie,  until  it  become  quite  the  fash- 
ion. Quichua  had  finally  died  out  near  Totora.  Real  tropical  heat, 
such  as  I had  all  but  forgotten  the  existence  of,  weighed  down  upon 
us,  though  it  did  not  induce  Tommy  to  be  seen  without  his  winter 
vest.  We  moved  forward  steadily,  but  no  longer  pushed  the  pace ; 
the  tropics  is  no  place  for  that.  Wandering  comfortably  along  sandy 
trails  through  half-woods,  we  came  now  and  then  upon  a cluster  of 
weather-blackened  wooden  crosses  tied  together  with  vines,  with 
rudely  carved  and  misspelled  lettering,  such  as : 

“ Rogad  adios  por  el  alma  de  Pablo  Morales 
Fallesio  22  jullo  de  1911.” 

The  alcalde  of  Monos,  which  consisted  of  a single  hut  at  the  top  of 
a stiff  zigzag,  had  already  held  that  honor  for  years,  in  spite  of  his 
protests.  When  I handed  him  the  order  from  his  chief  in  Samaipata, 
he  returned  it,  asking  me  to  read  it  aloud,  as  he  could  not.  I did 
so  fairly,  without  taking  advantage  of  the  occasion  to  include  a com- 
mand from  the  president  of  the  republic  for  him  to  stand  on  his  head, 
and,  duly  impressed,  he  spread  a sun-dried  cowhide  for  us  on  the 
unlevelled  earth  floor  of  his  wall-less  lean-to,  and  set  his  women  to 
preparing  us  a caldo,  of  which  we  furnished  the  rice  and  they  the  fire, 
labor,  and  a bit  of  what  looked  and  tasted  like  grass.  Food  had  grown 
so  tasteless  that  we  had  to  force  it  down  like  medicine,  simply  because 
we  needed  the  strength.  To  me  fell  the  task  of  making  the  family 
understand  why  we  should  wish  to  eat  again  in  the  morning,  before  we 
started. 

A couple  of  hours  beyond,  I came  upon  Tommy,  who  for  once  had 
forged  ahead,  seated  beside  the  trail  and  overcome  with  sadness. 
With  reason,  as  the  Spaniard  says.  Far  away  across  the  bottomless 
wooded  hole  in  the  earth  at  our  feet  rose  a sharp  range  with  red  rock 
cliffs  up  which  the  trail  climbed  to  the  very  gates  of  heaven  — which 
we  should  find  locked  no  doubt  when  we  arrived.  As  Tommy  put  it, 

538 


ON  FOOT  ACROSS  TROPICAL  BOLIVIA 


“ I think  they  must  have  to  take  part  of  that  hill  away  when  the  moon 
comes  over.”  We  slept  that  night  higher  than  Samaipata.  But  this 
was  the  last  surge  of  the  Andean  billows.  Next  morning  we  came 
out  on  a wonderful  vista  of  tropical  South  America,  an  unbroken  sea 
of  green,  rolling  and  more  hilly  than  I had  imagined  it,  spreading  away 
in  all  directions  into  the  purple  haze  of  vast  distances.  We  had  come 
at  last  to  the  end  of  the  Andes. 

Now  and  then  thereafter  came  a short  descent,  but  no  more  rises, 
and  we  were  soon  in  real  jungle,  with  palm-trees  of  many  species. 
Banana  plants  appeared ; and  insects  bit  us  from  hair  to  ankles.  Upon 
us  came  that  care-free  languor  of  the  tropics,  and  for  the  first  time  I 
realized  the  strain  of  living  and  tramping  two  or  three  miles  aloft. 
Dense  vegetation  crowded  the  trail,  now  heavy  in  sand  in  which  the 
constant  slap  of  our  feet  grew  monotonous,  close  on  either  hand. 
Night  had  no  terrors  now,  for  we  could  lie  down  anywhere.  Fruit 
of  many  kinds  grew, — plantains,  bananas,  melons,  oranges  green  in 
color,  papayas, — but  was  rarely  for  sale.  The  rare  inhabitants  had  a 
more  kindly  air,  addressing  us  as  “ Che  ” — “ Hola,  che  gringo ! ” — 
the  familiar  and  affectionate  term,  evidently  from  the  Guarani  for 
“ Look ! ” or  “ Listen ! ”,  which  we  were  to  hear  often  from  now  on 
clear  into  the  Argentine,  but  they  were  still  not  noted  for  unselfishness. 
A belligerent  attitude  might  have  won  more,  but  that  we  had  left 
behind  with  the  bleak  highlands.  Besides,  through  it  all  Tommy 
would  have  hung  on  my  coat-tail,  had  I worn  one,  shuddering  in  his 
English,  laboring-class  voice,  “ Don’t ! Don’t  tyke  it ! The  police  ! ” 

— and  once  anything  had  been  obtained,  he  would  have  made  away 
with  it  so  swiftly  that  I should  have  caught  little  more  than  its  vagrant 
aroma.  The  desire  for  sweets  was  alarming.  Indeed,  it  was  a crav- 
ing for  food,  rather  than  hunger,  that  troubled  us.  We  ate  great 
chunks  of  empanisado,  and  an  hour  after  the  best  meal  we  should  have 
jumped  to  accept  an  invitation  to  a fifteen-course  dinner. 

We  were  following  now  the  course  of  the  little,  all  but  waterless, 
Piray,  some  day  to  join  the  Mamore  and  the  Amazon.  There  were 
many  pack-trains  of  donkeys  and  mules  going  and  coming.  Thunder 
grumbled  frequently  far  off  to  the  east.  Toward  sunset  we  came 
upon  an  hacienda-house  before  which  hung  a bullock  on  a clothes-line 

— in  the  process  of  being  charquied,  and  already  as  succulent  as  the 
sole  of  an  old  boot.  The  haughty  hacendado  grudgingly  sold  us 
chunks  of  the  already-too-long-dead  animal  at  the  breath-taking  price 
of  fifty  centavos  a pound,  and  steeping  tea  in  water  so  thick  it  could 

539 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


all  but  stand  alone,  we  cut  off  slabs  of  the  meat  and  thrust  them  into 
the  fire  on  the  ends  of  sticks,  to  eat  it  half-raw  and  unaccompanied, 
like  gauchos  of  the  pampas. 

About  the  house  was  thick  grass,  an  unusual  feature  in  South  Amer- 
ica, for  ordinarily  either  the  altitude  is  too  great  for  it,  or  the  jungle 
so  thick  it  cannot  grow  in  the  constant  shade.  The  hacendado  gave  us 
permission  to  lie  anywhere  in  the  yard,  with  a graciousness  that  im- 
plied we  might  also  eat  the  longest  grass  if  we  chose.  All  the  corrals 
in  the  neighborhood  were  filled  with  donkey-  and  mule-trains,  with 
arrieros  speaking  both  Spanish  and  the  Quichua  of  the  highlands,  on 
the  way  to  or  from  Santa  Cruz  with  cargoes  of  alcohol,  hides,  and 
tobacco  coming  out  and  foreign  merchandise  going  in.  For  a long 
time  we  sat  in  the  velvety  air  of  a jungle  evening,  listening  to  the 
singing  of  tree-toads  and  crickets  and  the  occasional  faint  tinkle 
of  a grazing  lead-mule’s  bell,  with  now  and  then  the  sharp,  excited 
chorus  of  birds, — all  interwoven  with  the  wind-borne  voices  of 
the  arrieros.  Then  I picked  a spot,  as  apt  to  be  free  from  snakes, 
on  the  clipped  grass  a few  yards  from  the  house,  and  lay  down  on  my 
rubber  poncho.  The  soft  breeze  soon  lulled  me  to  sleep,  in  spite  of 
the  itching  of  countless  insect-bites.  I had  not  slept  long  probably, 
when  I was  awakened  by  rain  striking  me  in  the  face.  It  would  not 
last  long,  I fancied.  I pulled  the  poncho  over  me  and  let  it  rain. 
It  did.  Quickly  it  increased  to  a hollow  roar;  trickles  of  water  began 
•to  tickle  me  along  the  ribs.  Evidently  I had  picked  a slight  slope,  for 
the  water  was  soon  pouring  in  upon  me  in  streams.  I caught  up  my 
scattered  belongings  and  dashed  for  the  house,  the  wet  poncho  lap- 
ping up  all  the  mud  in  the  vicinity,  and  some  of  my  effects  dropping 
at  each  step,  forcing  me  to  await  the  next  flash  of  lightning  to  find 
them.  Under  the  corredor  roof  there  was  barely  room  to  roll  up 
beside  Tommy  on  the  earth  floor,  trampled  hard  as  an  iron  casting, 
and  for  an  hour  there  roared  such  a tropical  deluge  as  I had  never 
known  in  the  western  hemisphere. 

The  Piray,  now  a wide,  raging  river  of  red  mud,  forced  us  to  strip 
to  the  waist,  and  even  then  splashed  us  redly  far  higher  as  we  breasted 
the  powerful  current.  All  day  we  plowed  through  dense  forest,  wet 
and  soggy,  singing  with  insect  life,  a roaring  tropical  shower  bursting 
upon  us  now  and  then,  after  each  of  which  the  red  sun  blazed  out 
through  the  thick,  humid  air.  With  dusk  we  waded  heavy-kneed  into 
La  Guardia,  sticky  and  sweated  as  the  dweller  in  the  tropics  must 
always  be  who  cannot  spend  the  day  in  a hammock ; fighting  swarms 

540 


ON  FOOT  ACROSS  TROPICAL  BOLIVIA 


of  gnats  while  we  waited  patiently  for  the  promised  antidote  for  our 
raging  appetites.  Twice  during  the  day  we  had  climbed  padlocked 
bars  across  the  trail.  I had  fancied  them  toll-gates,  but  found  they 
were  aduanillas,  little  custom-houses  for  the  collection  of  duty  on 
goods  entering,  or  produce  leaving  the  department  of  Santa  Cruz. 
Each  hide  exported  paid  about  65  cents ; the  flour  that  had  come  all 
the  way  from  Tacoma,  Washington,  by  ship,  train,  and  mule  had  added 
to  its  already  exorbitant  price  a high  departmental  duty.  No  wonder 
chunks  of  boiled  yuca  commonly  took  the  place  of  bread. 

Beyond  La  Guardia  the  country  was  more  open,  the  forest  at  times 
giving  place  to  half-meadows,  with  single  trees  and  grazing  cattle, 
across  which  drifted  a breeze  that  tempered  the  midsummer  heat. 
The  way  lay  so  straight  across  the  floor-flat  country  that  the  line  of 
telegraph  poles  beside  it  looked  like  a single  pole  standing  forth  against 
the  horizon.  There  were  many  huts  now,  roofed  and  sometimes 
entirely  made  of  palm  branches.  Warm,  muddy  water  was  our  only 
drink,  for  we  had  descended  so  low  that  the  inhabitants  were  too  lazy 
even  to  make  chicha.  Once  we  got  a watermelon,  which  are  small 
here  and  far  from  being  on  ice.  In  passing  another  hut  I was  startled 
by  a cry  of  “ Se  vende  pan,”  and  went  in  to  pay  two  females,  whose 
faces  were  a patchwork  of  gnat-bites,  an  astounding  price  for  some 
tiny,  soggy  biscuits.  Ponderous  ox-carts  with  solid  wooden  wheels 
crawled  by  noiselessly  in  the  deep  sand  behind  three  and  even  four 
pairs  of  drowsy  oxen.  Everything,  even  the  breeze,  moved  now  with 
the  leisureliness  of  the  tropics.  The  jungle  ahead  was  so  flat  and 
green,  so  banked  by  clouds,  that  one  had  the  feeling  that  the  sea  was 
soon  to  open  out  beyond.  We  loafed  languidly  on,  certain  that  our 
goal  was  near,  yet  though  there  were  other  evidences  that  we  were 
approaching  a city,  there  were  no  more  visible  signs  of  it  than  in 
approaching  Port  Said  from  the  sea. 

At  last,  so  gradually  that  we  were  some  time  in  distinguishing  it 
from  a tree-top,  a dull-colored  church-tower  grew  up  in  line  with  the 
vista  of  telegraph-poles.  We  drifted  inertly  into  a sand-paved,  silent, 
tropical  city  street,  past  rows  of  languid  stares,  and  on  the  last  after- 
noon of  the  year,  with  Cochabamba  335  miles  behind  us,  sat  down 
dripping,  a week’s  lack  of  shave  veiling  our  sun-toasted  features,  in 
the  central  plaza  of  Santa  Cruz  de  la  Sierra. 

Tommy  had  heard  so  many  stories  of  the  generosity  of  the  crucehos 
that  he  was  astonished  to  have  reached  the  center  of  town  without  be- 
ing invited  from  some  doorway  to  come  in  and  make  his  home  there  as 

541 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


long  as  he  chose.  This  was  doubly  annoying,  since  rumor  had  it  that 
white  men  were  so  in  favor  with  the  gentler  sex  that  a sandy-haired 
one  as  handsome  as  Tommy  fancied  himself  to  be  was  in  danger  of 
being  damaged  by  the  feminine  rush  his  appearance  was  sure  to  pre- 
cipitate. After  a time  he  rose  to  carry  his  perplexity  back  to  where 
we  had  seen  the  British  vice-consular  shield  covering  the  front  of  a 
house.  When  I met  him  again  he  had  told  his  sad  tale  so  effectively 
that  he  had  been  “ put  up  ” at  both  hotels  by  as  many  compatriots  and 
was  eating  regularly  at  each,  though  taking  care  not  to  let  his  right 
hand  know  what  the  left  was  carrying  to  his  mouth.  After  dark,  in  a 
humid  night  made  barely  visible  by  a few  candle  street-lamps,  I 
splashed  out  to  the  hut  of  Manuel  Abasto  in  the  outskirts,  to  sleep 
under  the  trees  in  the  canvas-roofed  hammock  of  one  of  the  American 
prospectors,  the  legitimate  occupant  being  engaged  in  the  role  of  Don 
Juan  in  the  city.  The  hut  was  crowded  with  peons  already  half  drunk, 
languidly  fingering  several  guitars  and  now  and  then  raising  mournful 
voices  in  some  amorous  ballad.  At  midnight  church-bells  rang,  and 
one  distant  whistle  blew  weakly  to  greet  the  incoming  year,  but  the 
music  of  the  tropical  rain  on  the  canvas  over  my  head  soon  lulled  me 
to  sleep  again. 


542 


CHAPTER  XX 


LIFE  IN  THE  BOLIVIAN  WILDERNESS 

SANTA  CRUZ  DE  LA  SIERRA,  capital  of  all  the  vast  depart- 
ment of  eastern  Bolivia,  owes  its  fame  largely  to  its  isolation. 
Like  those  eminent  men  of  many  secluded  corners  of  South 
America,  it  is  important  only  because  of  the  exceeding  unimportance 
of  its  neighbors.  The  only  tropical  city  of  Bolivia,  it  stands  some 
1500  feet  above  sea-level  on  the  18th  meridian,  very  near  the  geo- 
graphical center  of  the  republic,  so  far  from  the  outside  world  that 
mail  deposited  on  January  yth  reached  New  York  on  March  nth. 
Of  its  19,000  inhabitants,  11,000  are  female.  The  emporium  and  dis- 
tributing point  of  all  this  region  and  of  the  rubber  districts  of  the  Beni, 
its  commerce  is  chiefly  in  the  hands  of  Germans,  though  the  two  houses 
that  all  but  monopolize  the  trade  pose  as  Belgian,  with  headquarters 
in  Antwerp.  There  are  few  Bolivian,  and  only  three  cruceno  houses 
of  importance,  and  these  for  the  most  part  buy  of  German  wholesalers 
in  Cochabamba.  Three  or  four  native  families  have  as  much  as 
$150,000,  a fortune  by  cruceno  standards,  won  from  rubber,  or  from 
cattle  ranches  roundabout  the  city.  Yet  there  is  much  primitive 
barter,  even  in  the  town, — an  ox  for  a load  of  firewood,  and  the  like, 
with  no  money  concerned  in  the  transaction.  Santa  Cruz  is  the  place 
of  birth  of  those  famous  Suarez  brothers  who  are  kings  of  the  rubber 
districts  of  the  Amazon. 

It  is  a city  of  silence.  Spreading  over  a dead-flat,  half-sandy,  jun- 
gled  plain,  its  right-angled  streets  are  deep  in  reddish  sand  in  which 
not  only  its  shod  feet  — by  no  means  in  the  majority,  though  the  upper 
class  is  almost  foppish  in  dress  — but  even  the  solid  wooden  wheels  of 
its  clumsy  ox-carts  make  not  a sound.  There  is  no  modern  industry 
to  lend  its  strident  voice,  though  the  town  boasts  three  “ steam  es- 
tablishments ” for  the  making  of  ice,  the  grinding  of  maize,  and  the 
sawing  of  lumber,  and  every  street  fades  away  at  either  end  into  the 
whispering  jungle.  Narrow  sidewalks  of  porous  red  bricks,  roofed 
by  the  wide  overhanging  eaves  of  the  houses,  often  upheld  by  pillars 
or  poles,  line  most  of  the  streets.  But  these  are  by  no  means  continu- 

543 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


ous,  and  being  commonly  high  above  the  street  level  and  often  taken 
up  entirely,  especially  of  an  evening,  by  the  families,  who  consider 
this  their  veranda  rather  than  the  pedestrian’s  right  of  way,  the  latter 
generally  finds  it  easier  to  plod  through  the  sand  of  the  street  itself. 
In  the  rainy  season,  which  begins  with  the  new  year  and  lasts  through 
April,  there  are  many  muddy  pools  and  ponds  in  the  outskirts,  along 
the  edges  of  some  of  which  the  streets  crawl  by  on  long  heaps  of  the 
skulls  of  cattle,  bleached  snow-white  by  the  sun,  and  the  larger  of 
which,  almost  lakes,  somehow  carried  the  mind  back  to  Kandy,  Ceylon. 
Frequently  the  streets  in  the  center  of  town  are  flooded  for  an  hour  or 
more,  until  the  thirsty  sand  has  drunk  up  a tropical  deluge.  For 
these  eventualities  Santa  Cruz  has  a system  of  its  own.  At  each 
corner  four  rows  of  atoquines,  weather-blackened  piles  of  a kind  of 
mahogany,  protrude  a foot  or  more  above  the  sand ; and  along  these 
stepping-stones  the  minority  passes  dry-shod  from  one  roofed  sidewalk 
to  another. 

The  houses,  usually  of  a single  story,  their  tile  roofs  bleached 
yellowish  by  the  tropical  sun,  present  a large  room,  wide  open  by 
day  on  the  porch  sidewalk,  and  rather  bare  in  appearance  in  spite  of 
a forest  of  frail  cane  chairs,  black  in  color.  From  the  once  white- 
washed adobe  walls  protrude  several  pairs  of  hooks  on  each  of 
which  hangs,  except  during  the  hour  of  siesta,  a rolled-up  hammock. 
On  or  near  the  floor  sits  a little  hand  sewing-machine,  the  exotic 
whirr  of  which  sounds  now  and  then ; and  just  inside  the  door  are 
usually  a few  shallow  tubs,  like  small  dugout  canoes,  holding  tropical 
fruits,  soggy  bread  cakes,  and  sugar  in  all  its  stages;  for  many,  even 
of  the  “ best  families,”  patch  out  their  livelihood  with  a bit  of  amateur 
shopkeeping.  Through  this  main  room,  parlor,  and  chief  pride  of 
each  family,  past  which  one  cannot  walk  without  glancing  in  upon 
the  household,  a back  door  gives  a glimpse  of  the  patio,  a pretty 
garden  hidden  away  after  the  Moorish  fashion  — strange  that  the 
Arab  influence  should  have  reached  even  this  far-distant  heart  of 
South  America  — airy  and  bright  and  large,  for  space  is  not  lacking 
in  Santa  Cruz,  often  almost  an  orchard  and  blooming  with  flowers 
of  many  colors.  On  this  open  several  smaller  rooms  which,  being 
out  of  sight  of  the  public,  are  often  far  less  attractive  than  the  parlor. 

In  the  outside  world  the  climate  of  Santa  Cruz  is  reputed  obnoxious 
to  whites ; about  its  name  hover  those  legends,  common  also  to  India, 
of  Europeans  being  worn  to  fever-yellow  wrecks.  As  a matter  of 
fact,  the  temperature  does  not  rise  higher  than  in  southern  Canada 

544 


A street  of  Santa  Cruz  de  la  Sierra  after  a shower,  showing  the  atoquines,  or  projecting 
spiles  by  which  pedestrians  cross  from  one  roofed  sidewalk  to  another 


Conscripts  of  the  Bolivian  army  practicing  their  first  manoeuvers  in  the  central  plaza  of 
Santa  Cruz.  All  who  have  reached  the  age  of  nineteen  during  the  past  year  are 
obliged  to  report  at  the  capital  of  their  province  on  New  Year’s  Day 


LIFE  IN  THE  BOLIVIAN  WILDERNESS 


in  July,  and  a cool  breeze  sweeps  almost  continually  across  the  pampas 
about  it.  Mosquitos  are  rare,  fever  all  but  unknown.  It  is  not  loss 
of  health,  but  his  energetic  view  of  life  which  the  Caucasian  im- 
migrant risks.  Especially  during  this  hottest  season  of  January  the 
heat  was  humid  and  heavy,  and  I found  myself  falling  quickly  into 
the  local  mood  of  contentment  just  to  lie  in  a hammock  and  let  the 
world  drift  on  without  me.  It  took  an  unusual  length  of  time  to 
make  up  my  mind  to  do  anything,  and  then  required  more  will-power 
than  usual  to  force  myself  to  get  up  and  do  it,  particularly  to  keep  on 
doing  it  until  it  was  finished.  But  it  is  perhaps  as  largely  due  to 
environment  as  to  the  climate  that  Santa  Cruz  is  visibly  lazy.  The 
region  roundabout  is  so  fertile  that  almost  every  staple  except  wheat 
and  potatoes  grow,  and  the  slightest  exertion  earns  sustenance.  There 
are  sugar  plantations  and  sugar-  and  alcohol-producing  establishments 
scattered  here  and  there ; the  province  of  Sara  to  the  north  supplies 
food  not  only  to  the  city  but  to  the  rubber  districts  as  far  away  as  the 
Acre ; coffee,  rice,  and  tobacco  can  be  produced  in  abundance ; hides 
already  constitute  an  important  export ; the  region  to  the  west  is  re- 
puted rich  in  oil.  Yet  Santa  Cruz  makes  small  use  of  her  possibilities, 
languidly  waiting  for  the  arrival  of  a railroad  and  the  influx  of  foreign 
capital  to  develop  them. 

The  rumors  that  seep  up  out  of  Santa  Cruz  of  her  beautiful  pure- 
white  types  are  largely  of  artificial  propagation.  It  is  true  that  she 
has  a larger  percentage  of  Spanish  blood  than  any  other  city  of 
Bolivia,  but  this  is  rarely  found  in  its  unadulterated  form.  Some 
negro  and  considerable  Indian  ancestry  has  left  its  mark,  and  while 
there  is  not  a full-blooded  African,  or  perhaps  a full  Indian,  in  town, 
and  Spanish  is  the  universal,  if  slovenly,  tongue,  genuine  white  natives 
are  few  in  number.  As  to  the  beautiful  girls  and  women  of  popular 
fancy,  they  do  exist,  but  certainly  in  no  larger  proportion  than  pearls 
in  oysters.  The  overwhelming  majority  are  coarse-featured,  with 
heavy  noses  and  sensual  lips,  crumbling  teeth  that  hint  at  degeneration, 
and  little  attractiveness  beyond  the  quick-fading  physical  one  of  youth. 

Some  cynic  has  said  that  a wall  set  about  Santa  Cruz  de  la  Sierra 
would  enclose  the  largest  house  of  ill-fame  on  earth.  So  broad  a 
statement  is  unkind.  Yet  not  merely  are  the  majority  of  crucenos 
born  out  of  wedlock  — that  much  can  be  said  of  all  Bolivia  — but 
those  who  are  accustomed  to  investigate  such  matters  agree  that  the 
seeker  after  feminine  favors  in  Santa  Cruz  need  never  leave  the  block 
in  which  he  chances  to  find  himself.  Plain-spoken  foreign  residents 

545 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 

put  it  baldly  that  virginity  never  survives  the  twelfth  year,  but  this  is 
no  doubt  an  exaggeration.  The  causes  of  this  lack  of  social  tautness 
are  several.  The  overstock  of  one  sex,  due  largely  to  the  migration 
of  the  young  men  to  the  rubber  forests  of  the  Beni,  often  never  to 
return ; a widespread  poverty  and  the  lack  of  any  independent  means 
of  livelihood  for  women ; and  a tropical  apathy,  even  of  character, 
are  perhaps  the  chief.  Then,  too,  there  is  a marked  absence  of  good 
example.  The  higher  officials  and  more  wealthy  men  have,  with  rare 
exceptions,  at  least  one  irregular  household ; not  a few  have  only 
irregular  ones.  The  story  is  current  of  one  of  the  chief  political  pow- 
ers of  the  department  who  decided  to  visit  his  daughter  at  school  in 
Germany.  Forewarned,  that  startled  young  lady  hastened  to  write: 
“ If  you  and  mama  are  coming  to  Germany,  you  must  get  married 
first.”  The  father  yielded  good-naturedly  to  this  quaint  whim  of  a 
favorite  daughter,  and  during  the  weeks  before  his  departure,  spread 
the  story  far  and  wide  as  one  of  his  best  after-dinner  witticisms.  The 
native  priests  almost  invariably  have  concubines.  Some,  using  the 
transparent  subterfuge  common  to  all  Latin-America,  refer  to  their 
families  as  “ housekeeper  ” and  “ nephews.”  Not  a few  frankly  speak 
of  “ the  mother  of  my  children.”  With  rare  exceptions  this  runs  to 
the  plural.  Among  the  masses,  naturally,  these  conditions  are  not  im- 
proved upon.  Marriage,  troublesome,  expensive,  and  conspicuous, 
hardly  bringing  even  the  advantage  of  neighborly  approbation,  is  apt 
to  be  looked  upon  as  a nuisance ; and  it  is  always  hard  to  go  to  useless 
trouble  in  the  tropics.  The  nineteen-year-old  son  of  an  American 
resident  was  pointed  out  by  both  sexes  as  a curiosity,  because  he  was 
still  without  natural  children.  The  laws  of  Bolivia  recognize  three 
classes  of  offspring, — legitimate,  natural,  and  unnatural.  The  second 
are  inalienable  heirs  to  one  fifth  the  father’s  property.  The  third 
division  comprises  those  born  out  of  wedlock  to  parents  who  could 
not  marry  if  they  wished, — that  is,  one  or  both  of  whom  is  already 
married,  or  has  taken  the  priestly  vows  of  celibacy.  The  town  has 
little  notion  of  the  viewpoint  of  the  rest  of  the  world  on  this  subject. 
Like  an  island  far  out  at  sea,  all  but  cut  off  from  the  rest  of  mankind, 
it  has  developed  customs  — or  a lack  of  them  — of  its  own,  its  in- 
dividual point  of  view;  and,  like  all  isolated  groups,  it  is  sure  of  its 
own  importance  in  exact  ratio  to  the  lack  of  outside  influence ; so  that 
barefooted  crucenos  are  firmly  convinced  that  their  ways  are  vastly  su- 
perior to  those  of  the  rest  of  the  world,  which  they  judge  by  the  few 
sorry  specimens  thereof  who  drift  in  upon  them  bedraggled  by  weeks 

546 


LIFE  IN  THE  BOLIVIAN  WILDERNESS 


on  wilderness  trails.  The  term  “ Colla,”  used  to  designate  the  people 
of  the  Bolivian  highlands,  and  passed  on  by  the  masses  to  the  world 
at  large,  is  here  a word  of  deprecation. 

With  few  exceptions  the  foreign  residents  soon  fall  into  this  easy, 
tropical  way  of  life.  The  two  “ Belgian  ” firms  bring  in  scores  of 
young  German  employees  trained  in  the  European  main  house ; and 
there  are  normally  some  250  Teutonic  residents.  The  percentage  of 
these  is  low  who  are  not  established  within  a month  of  their  arrival 
in  any  part  of  the  region  with  their  own  “ housekeepers.”  The  recruit 
is  shown  the  expediency  of  this  arrangement  by  both  the  precept  and 
the  example  of  his  fellow-countrymen.  Celibacy  is  alleged  to  be  doubly 
baneful  in  the  tropics ; there  are  no  hotels  or  restaurants  worthy  the 
name ; the  pleasure  of  forming  a part  of  the  best  native  family  would 
soon  wear  threadbare,  even  if  the  Moorish  seclusion  of  these  did  not 
make  admittance  impossible.  To  live  with  even  a modicum  of  com- 
fort in  these  wilds  the  white  man  must  have  a home  of  his  own.  The 
frail  walls  thereof  are  slight  protection  against  theft.  Unless  he  will 
reduce  his  possessions  to  what  he  can  carry  to  and  from  his  stool 
or  counter  each  day,  a “ housekeeper  ” is  imperative.  Though  a neigh- 
bor might  be  induced  to  provide  meals  and  such  housekeeping  as  she 
has  time  for,  the  crucena  brings  her  personal  interest  to  bear  only 
on  those  things  of  which  she  is  genuinely,  if  temporarily,  a part.  To 
her,  wages  are  neither  customary  nor  attractive ; the  reward  for  her 
labors  must  be  a temporarily  permanent  home.  Hence  the  “ servant 
problem  ” is  most  easily  solved  by  adopting  the  servant.  Whatever 
principles  contrary  to  this  mode  of  life  the  youthful  Teuton  brings 
with  him  from  his  native  land,  they  quickly  melt  away  under  the 
tropical  sun,  and  there  is  commonly  little  resistance  to  the  new  en- 
vironment. 

Let  it  not  be  understood  that  there  is  unusual  betrayal  or  persecu- 
tion of  innocent  womanhood  in  Santa  Cruz.  Rather  the  contrary  is 
true.  It  is  the  man  who  runs  the  most  constant  gauntlet  of  temptation. 
The  arrival  of  a new  clerk  is  sure  to  cause  a crowding  of  young  women 
about  the  door  of  the  establishment,  and  to  swamp  it  with  pretended 
purchasers.  Report  has  it  that  a daughter  of  almost  the  “ best  fam- 
ilies ” may  be  won  by  the  employee  who  will  remain  a few  years  and 
buy  her  a house  or  leave  her  a small  income  at  his  departure.  With 
the  poorer  classes  the  usual  procedure  is  to  open  negotiations  with 
the  girl’s  family,  to  give  her  mother  a present,  or  win  her  consent 
through  her  taste  for  strong  drink.  In  the  wilder  regions  of  the 

547 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


interior  the  gift  of  a rifle,  or  something  equally  coveted,  to  the  father 
is  usually  sufficient.  Daughters  are  easily  acquired,  but  rifles  are 
scarce.  Coming  under  short  contract,  the  recruit,  grown  to  a darker- 
skinned  bookkeeper  or  sub-manager,  goes  his  way,  or  is  transferred, 
and  leaves  behind  whatever  family  may  have  befallen  him,  frequently 
recommending  his  “ widow  ” to  a newly  arrived  compatriot.  Though 
there  is  said  to  be  less  taking  of  “ housekeepers  ” than  formerly,  in  a 
given  group  of  thirty  Germans,  twenty  had  female  companions,  six  had 
German  wives,  and  four,  legal  crucena  wives.  At  the  time  of  my  stay 
in  Santa  Cruz,  49  native  women  were  calling  monthly  upon  the  cashier 
of  a single  commercial  house  for  the  pension  granted  them  for  the 
rearing  of  their  from  one  to  six  half-German  children;  and  these  were 
the  abandoned  mates  only  of  such  as  were  still  employees  of  the  firm 
elsewhere,  or  of  the  rare  few  who  had  themselves  left  some  stipend 
for  their  offspring.  The  point  of  view  of  the  Teuton  on  this  subject 
is  that  he  is  no  worse,  but  merely  more  free  from  “ hypocrisy  ” than 
the  Anglo-Saxon.  Even  the  German  women  accept  the  condition  with 
little  protest,  often  joining  in  the  celebration  at  the  baptism  of  the 
illegitimate  infant  of  a compatriot.  In  an  isolated  corner  of  the  de- 
partment I found  a well-educated,  likable  German  keeping  house 
with  a jet-black  negro  girl;  and  not  only  was  his  wife  in  Germany 
aware  of  the  arrangement,  and  amused  by  his  letters  concerning  his 
companion,  but  advised  him  to  keep  her  as  long  as  he  remained  in 
Bolivia,  that  he  might  have  “ some  one  to  look  after  him  and  keep 
him  in  health.” 

Were  the  results  of  these  attachments  an  improved  human  stock, 
there  might  be  less  to  condemn.  For  in  its  present  stage  of  progress, 
tropical  Bolivia  is  more  amenable  to  economic  than  to  “ moral  ” im- 
provement ; and  the  country  is  sorely  in  need  of  population.  But 
the  foreign  blood  injected  into  cruceno  arteries  is  as  nothing  against 
the  environment.  The  sons  of  Europeans  may  be  an  improvement 
upon  the  natives,  at  least  in  those  rare  cases  where  the  father  has 
remained  to  add  the  vigor  of  his  training;  but  the  succeeding  genera- 
tion is  only  too  apt  to  degenerate  quickly  into  the  most  native  of 
natives.  The  assertion  of  scientists  that  new  blood  must  constantly 
be  brought  to  the  tropics  if  these  regions  are  to  progress,  is  plainly 
demonstrated  in  Santa  Cruz.  Throughout  the  department  may  be  seen 
to-day  in  the  flesh  those  conditions  which,  centuries  ago,  followed  the 
coming  of  the  Conquistadores  without  their  own  women  or  the  Puri- 

548 


LIFE  IN  THE  BOLIVIAN  WILDERNESS 


tan’s  point  of  view,  which  have  made  Latin-America  from  end  to  end 
the  abode  of  a chiefly  mongrel  race. 

Attempted  improvement  of  the  status  quo  meets  with  as  little  ap- 
proval as  in  all  other  centers  of  the  universe.  The  American  directress 
of  the  government  girls’  school  found  herself  balked  at  the  outset  in 
the  simplest  matters.  Her  edict  that  pupils  must  not  come  to  school 
without  some  other  nether  garment  than  the  customary  skirt  was  bit- 
terly- opposed  both  by  mothers  and  by  her  assistants,  on  the  ground 
that  “ it  is  so  hot  in  Santa  Cruz.”  Crucenos  blame  the  heat  for  most 
of  their  shortcomings,  as  the  gringo  miners  of  the  Andes  sweepingly 
“ lay  it  to  the  altitude.”  In  the  school  in  question  there  were  300 
girls  of  the  “ best  families  ” of  Santa  Cruz.  One  in  every  four  of 
them  was  of  legitimate  birth.  The  teachers  were  in  many  cases  de- 
crepit granddames,  yet  no  one  with  a relative  or  a friend  in  the  gov- 
ernment offices  could  be  removed,  because  these  saw  to  it  that  no 
report  against  their  protegees  ever  reached  higher  officials.  In  the 
faculty  meetings  it  was  impossible  to  criticize  a pupil,  whatever  her 
delinquency,  for  she  was  sure  to  have  at  least  one  relative  among  the 
teachers  to  precipitate  an  uproar. 

On  New  Year’s  Day  I had  taken  up  my  abode  with  the  only  perma- 
nent American  resident  of  Santa  Cruz.  “ Juan  ” S.  Bowles,  born  in 
Ohio  — a cavalry  troop  of  which  state  he  had  commanded  from 
Atlanta  to  the  sea  — had  come  to  Brazil  nine  years  after  the  war  and 
ascended  to  Santa  Cruz  by  way  of  the  Amazon,  in  the  years  when  80 
days  of  hard  labor  were  required  to  cover  the  280  miles  now  served 
by  the  Madeira-Mamore  railroad.  He  had  never  since  seen  his  native 
land.  His  ice-plant  was  for  many  years  the  only  producer  of  that 
exotic  commodity  in  tropical  Bolivia,  where,  in  the  early  days,  it  ranked 
as  a luxury  at  25  cents  a pound.  Under  his  unwilted  American  energy 
and  indifference  to  local  caste  rules  the  plant  still  produced  its  daily 
quota,  if  at  something  less  than  that  regal  reward.  On  his  back  ver- 
anda stood  a leather  bed  — an  ox-hide  stretched  on  a wooden  frame 
on  legs  — just  the  place  to  spend  a cruceno  night,  and  his  stories  of 
“Johnny  Rebs  ” alone  made  the  week  I spent  there  well  worth  while. 

Sometimes,  though  with  difficulty,  his  reminiscences  could  be  staged 
in  Bolivia.  After  Santa  Cruz  had  drunk  and  died  of  swamp  water 
savored  with  dead  cats  for  some  three  centuries,  this  energetic  new 
resident  imported  machinery  and  drove  an  artesian  well,  coming  upon 
excellent  water  some  fifty  feet  below  the  surface.  This  he  offered 

549 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


for  sale,  putting  out  of  business  the  friars  who,  watching  the  barometer, 
successfully  prayed  to  the  Virgin  for  rain.  The  first  woman  to  arrive 
with  her  cdntaro  on  her  head  asked  the  son  in  charge  if  he  were  not 
“ ashamed  to  sell  the  water  God  gave.” 

“ But  he  did  n’t  give  the  pump  or  drive  the  well,”  retorted  the  boy ; 
“ There  is  plenty  of  God’s  free  water  over  there  in  the  swamp.” 

To-day  the  former  captain  of  cavalry  has  ten  wells  to  his  credit 
and  is  trying  to  get  the  municipality  to  let  him  install  an  “ aeromotor.” 

For  all  his  long  residence,  the  Ohioan  had  by  no  means  reconciled 
life  to  the  cruceno  point  of  view.  His  criticisms  on  this  subject  were 
biting.  Though  the  town  swarmed  with  “ educated  ” loafers,  well- 
dressed  according  to  their  ideals,  it  was  all  but  impossible  to  get  native 
assistants.  The  youths,  egged  on  by  their  mothers,  flocked  to  the 
already  overcrowded  white-fingered  professions,  rather  than  become 
mechanics  or  learn  to  run  an  engine,  two  occupations  sadly  needed  in 
Santa  Cruz.  As  the  old  man  put  it,  “ They  won’t  come  here  and 
learn  a good,  useful  trade,  with  pay  while  learning;  yet  if  you  throw 
a stone  at  a dog  anywhere  in  town  and  miss  him,  you  are  sure  to  hit 
a priest,  a lawyer,  or  a doctor  — with  nothing  to  do.”  The  boys  he 
could  hire,  of  the  most  poverty-stricken  families;  would  not  work 
where  anyone  could  see  them.  Agapito  would  tote  bricks  within  the 
patio  without  a protest,  but  he  would  take  his  discharge  rather  than 
carry  a parcel  to  or  from  the  post-office.  The  mothers  would  rather 
have  their  daughters  earn  their  living  in  the  local  feminine  way  than 
have  their  sons  descend  to  manual  labor.  A “ caballero,”  wear- 
ing shoes,  without  socks,  requiring  his  gun  repaired  to  go  hunting, 
could  not  get  it  to  the  shop  until  he  could  find  an  Indian  to  carry  it 
there. 

Bowles  was  an  interesting  example  of  the  transplanted  American. 
A man  of  education  and  of  shrewd  native  wit,  he  had  developed  here 
in  the  wilderness  a quaint,  isolated  philosophy  of  his  own,  and  was 
one  of  those  rare  white  men  who  have  spent  many  years  unbrokenly 
in  such  an  environment  and  climate  without  “going  to  seed.”  Not 
merely  was  he  a wide  and  reflective  reader  on  all  subjects  from  the 
scientific  to  the  curious,  but  still,  at  seventy-five,  produced  in  the  in- 
terstices of  his  labors  as  chief  mechanic  of  the  region  authoritative 
articles  for  the  Buenos  Aires,  London,  and  American  periodicals. 
How  great  a feat  this  is  only  those  can  understand  who  know  the 
enervating  effect  on  both  mind  and  body  of  long  tropical  residence. 
His  staunch  individualism  and  independence  of  the  verdict  of  the  world 

550 


LIFE  IN  THE  BOLIVIAN  WILDERNESS 


was  little  short  of  startling  to  those  of  us  who  live  more  nearly  in  it. 
Set  away  in  the  fastnesses  of  the  earth,  with  only  his  own  mind  to  feed 
upon,  instead  of  having  his  opinions  delivered  at  his  door  each  morning 
by  the  newsboy,  he  had  developed  a thinking-machine  of  his  own  that 
grasped  firmly  whatever  it  took  hold  of,  and  a hard,  unsentimental 
common  sense  fitted  to  his  environment.  His  speech  carried  one  back 
to  the  Civil  War,  and  his  vocabulary  had  quaint,  amusing  touches ; 
for  the  words  he  had  added  to  it  since  his  migration  had  been  chiefly 
from  books,  with  rare  and  brief  intercourse  with  English-speaking 
persons.  Thus  his  pronunciation  of  many  terms  unknown  to  the 
world  in  the  seventies  had  been  evolved  from  his  own  mind  amid  his 
Spanish-tongued  environment.  He  spoke  of  “ alumeenum,”  and  called 
the  recently  discovered  cause  of  all  earthly  ills  “ Mee-crow-bays.” 
Words  like  “ poligamic,”  rarely  heard  from  any  but  scientific  mouths, 
appeared  in  the  same  sentence  with  “ ketched,”  the  past  participle  of 
Civil  War  days.  Edison’s  noisy  invention  he  called  “ pho-no-graph,” 
but  the  word  “ leisurely  ” he  pronounced  correctly,  not  a common 
American  feat. 

This  New  Year’s  Day  was  notable  to  Bowles  for  another  reason. 
His  youngest  son  and  last  effective  assistant  made  his  first  appearance 
in  the  uniform  of  a Bolivian  soldier,  and  moved  from  home  to  the  cuar- 
tel.  Conscription  is  theoretically  universal  in  Bolivia.  On  the  first  day 
of  each  year  every  youth  within  the  republic  who  has  reached  his  nine- 
teenth birthday  must  report  at  the  capital  of  his  department,  ready 
for  service.  Those  that  are  not  physically  unfit,  or  have  not  sufficient 
influence,  are  given  three  months  training,  after  which  they  draw 
lots  to  serve  two  years  at  40  centavos  a day.  During  my  time  there 
the  plaza  of  Santa  Cruz  was  overrun  with  lank  country  boys  and 
sallow  city  youths,  in  most  cases  still  in  their  civilian  garb  of  baggy, 
road-worn  linen  or  near-Parisian  gente  decente  attire,  awkwardly 
practicing  the  right  and  left  face  under  the  commands  of  youthful 
officers.  By  Bolivian  law  a child  born  in  Bolivia  is  a Bolivian,  what- 
ever the  nationality  of  the  father.  The  Civil  War  veteran,  who  had 
strictly  kept  his  American  citizenship,  though  married  to  a Bolivian 
wife,  had  appealed  in  vain  to  the  American  minister  in  La  Paz.  Pros- 
pective immigrants  to  this,  as  to  several  other  South  American  coun- 
tries, should  not  overlook  this  point  in  the  future  of  their  children. 
As  Bowles  expressed  it,  “ Fifteen  hundred  bolivianos  for  every  son 
born  in  the  country  is  too  much  tax  to  pay  for  the  privilege  of  living 
in  it.”  When  the  time  came  for  choosing  by  lot  the  recruits  needed 

55i 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


to  make  up  the  peace  quota  of  the  Bolivian  army,  Teutonic  in  its 
discipline  and  formation,  this  useful  son  of  an  American  “ drew  un- 
lucky ” and  was  obliged  to  serve  two  years,  though  fate  had  left 
behind  in  Santa  Cruz  many  a worthless  native  loafer. 

But  the  then  most  widely-known  gringo  sojourner  in  Santa  Cruz 
was  an  Englishman  who  chose  to  call  himself  “ Jack  Thompson.”  His 
habitat  was  the  departmental  prison.  His  story  was  well-fitted  to  the 
“ Penny  Dreadful  ” or  the  cinema  screen.  Some  years  ago  “ Thomp- 
son ” and  a fellow-countryman  had  drifted  out  of  the  interior  of 
Brazil  into  Corumba,  and  offered  to  sell  their  rights  to  a rubber  forest 
they  had  discovered.  The  Teutonic  house  that  showed  interest  asked 
them  to  await  a decision,  and  meanwhile  offered  them  employment  in 
the  escort  of  a party  of  German  employees,  peons,  and  muleteers  car- 
rying £7000  in  gold  to  a branch  of  the  establishment  in  the  interior 
of  Bolivia.  On  the  trail  a German  of  the  escort  drew  the  English- 
men into  a plot  to  hold  up  the  party.  A week  or  more  inland,  at  a 
rivulet  called  Ypias,  the  trio  suddenly  fell  upon  their  companions 
and  killed  three  Germans,  a Frenchman,  a Bolivian  muleteer,  and 
the  chola  “ housekeeper  ” of  the  chief  of  the  expedition.  The  rest 
scattered  into  the  jungle;  except  one  old  Indian  arriero  who,  unable 
to  run,  managed  to  crawl  up  into  the  branches  of  a nearby  tree. 
There  he  witnessed  the  second  act  of  the  melodrama.  For  a time 
the  trio  remained  in  peace  and  concord,  washed,  drank,  and  concocted 
a meal  over  jungle  brush.  But  soon  the  question  of  the  division  of 
the  gold  became  a dispute.  The  German  asserted  that,  as  author  of 
the  plan,  he  should  take  half.  The  Englishmen  insisted  on  an  equal 
division.  The  dispute  became  a quarrel.  At  length,  late  in  the  after- 
noon, when  the  unknown  observer  was  ready  to  drop  to  the  ground 
and  a quick  death,  from  exhaustion,  fear,  and  thirst,  the  Englishmen 
fell  upon  their  confederate  with  a revolver,  two  rifles,  and  a sabre. 
Even  a German  must  succumb  under  such  odds.  Leaving  the  body 
where  it  fell,  the  pair  divided  the  gold,  and  each  swinging  a pair  of 
saddlebags  over  a shoulder,  struck  off  into  the  trackless  jungle,  for 
some  reason  fancying  this  a surer  escape  than  to  mount  mules  and 
dash  for  safety  in  Brazil. 

Meanwhile  some  of  the  refugees  had  reached  nearby  settlements. 
Several  search  parties  were  made  up  and,  having  buried  what  the 
vultures  had  left,  took  up  the  scent.  The  natives  of  these  jungle 
regions  are  not  easily  eluded  in  their  own  element.  For  four  days 
the  Britons  struggled  through  the  tropical  wilderness,  half-dead  from 

552 


Manuel  Abasto,  a native  of  Santa  Cruz  de  la  Sierra  Through  the  open  doors  of  Santa  Cruz  one  often  catches  a 

glimpse  of  the  patio,  a garden  gay  with  flowers 


LIFE  IN  THE  BOLIVIAN  WILDERNESS 


thirst  — for  it  was  September,  at  the  end  of  the  dry  season  — and 
soon  reduced  to  a few  native  berries  as  food.  The  gold  became  too 
heavy  for  their  waning  forces.  They  managed  to  climb  to  the  summit 
of  a jungle  bluff  and  bury  most  of  it.  On  the  fifth  day  a search  party 
came  upon  them  resting  in  a shaded  thicket.  A volley  killed  his 
companion  and  slightly  wounded  “ Thompson.”  Leaving  the  corpse 
for  the  vultures,  the  pursuers  tracked  the  wounded  man  all  night  and 
next  morning  caught  him  at  bay.  Having  pointed  out  the  hiding- 
place  of  the  gold,  he  was  set  backward  astride  a mule  with  his  hands 
tied  behind  him  and,  amid  such  persecution  as  the  savage,  half-Indian 
Bolivian  can  invent,  was  escorted  to  San  Jose,  and  later  driven  through 
the  jungle  and  lodged  in  the  departmental  prison. 

All  this  had  occurred  three  years  before.  Twice  “ Thompson,”  who 
was  a Mason,  as  are  some  of  the  officials  of  Bolivia,  “ escaped.”  The 
first  time  he  was  found  drunk  in  the  plaza  before  his  evasion  was 
known;  the  second,  he  walked  the  160  leagues  to  Yacuiva  through 
the  jungle  without  once  touching  the  trail,  only  to  celebrate  too  early 
what  he  fancied,  for  lack  of  geographical  knowledge,  was  his  escape 
into  the  Argentine,  and  be  forced  to  walk  all  the  way  back.  Finally, 
after  more  than  a year  in  prison,  he  had  been  tried  — on  paper,  as  in 
all  Spanish-America  — and  within  another  twelve-month  had  coaxed 
the  judge  to  deliver  his  verdict  and  sentence  him  — to  be  shot.  The 
supreme  court  and  the  president  had  still  to  pass  upon  the  matter,  and 
another  year  had  drifted  by. 

Of  late  years  it  is  not  easy  to  gain  admittance  to  the  prison  of 
Santa  Cruz.  About  its  doors  swarm  ragged  sentinels  who  scream 
frantically  “Cabo  de  Guardia ! ” (“Corporal  of  the  Guard”),  and 
swing  their  aged  muskets  menacingly  whenever  a stranger  pauses  to 
speak  to  them.  But  a note  from  the  prefect  brought  me  the  attention 
of  the  haughty  superiors  of  the  “ Policia  de  Seguridad,”  who  saw  fit  to 
permit  me  to  *wade  across  the  first  patio  of  the  prison.  There  an 
insolent  half-negro  in  the  remnants  of  a faded  khaki  uniform  felt 
me  carefully  over  for  firearms,  and  at  length  deigned  to  open  a wooden- 
barred  door.  Beyond  another  mud-floored  anteroom  and  through 
another  wooden  gate,  I found  myself  in  a bare  patio  some  forty  feet 
square,  with  a deep  open  well  and  signs  that  the  entire  yard  became 
a pond  whenever  it  rained.  This  was  surrounded  on  all  sides  by  an 
ancient  low  building  of  adobe,  under  the  projecting  eaves  of  which, 
on  the  ground  or  in  hammocks,  and  inside  squalid  cell-like  rooms, 
loafed  a score  or  more  of  men  and  several  women  of  all  known  human 

553 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


complexions  and  degrees  of  undress.  A single  boy  soldier  of  simian 
brow,  with  a disproportionately  heavy  loaded  rifle  on  his  shoulder, 
paraded  in  the  shade  of  the  eaves.  He  looked,  indeed,  like  one  to 
whose  ingrown  intelligence  could  safely  be  trusted  matters  of  life 
and  death ! 

My  errand  made  known,  several  of  the  prisoners,  without  rising, 
began  to  shout,  “ Don  Arturo ! ” By  and  by  a voice  came  back,  “ ’Sta 
bahandose ! ” I crossed  to  one  of  the  cells,  a small  room  filled  with 
sundry  junk,  chiefly  the  tools  of  a mechanic,  of  which  the  wooden- 
barred  door  stood  ajar.  Inside,  on  a piece  of  board  laid  on  the  earth 
floor,  stood  “ Thompson,”  in  the  costume  of  Adam,  pouring  a bucket 
of  water  over  his  head.  I explained  that  I was  drifting  through 
Bolivia  and  fancied  he  might  be  glad  to  hear  his  native  tongue  again. 
He  was,  having  had  only  two  such  visitors  during  the  year  just  ended. 
Wrapping  a towel  about  his  loins,  he  stood  and  chatted,  while  an 
anemic  half-negro  in  what  had  once  been  khaki  leaned  against  the 
door-post  watching  our  every  movement,  and  several  other  prisoners 
crowded  round  in  the  customary  ill-bred  South  American  fashion. 

“ Thompson  ” was  an  unattractive  man  in  middle  life,  rather  thin, 
with  the  accent  and  bad  teeth  of  the  Englishman  of  the  mechanic 
class,  and  the  uninspired  and  rather  hopeless  philosophy  of  life  com- 
mon to  that  caste.  Otherwise  his  attitude  was  in  no  way  different 
from  what  it  would  have  been  had  we  been  a pair  of  tramps  met  on 
the  road.  He  smiled  frequently  as  he  talked,  and  was  neither  more 
sad  nor  more  cynical  than  the  average  of  his  class.  He  made  no 
secret  of  his  part  in  what  he  referred  to  as  “ our  stunt,”  and  gave  me 
detailed  information  on  how  to  find  the  graves  along  the  trail  “ where 
we  pulled  it  off,”  in  case  I should  continue  to  the  eastward.  He 
plainly  regretted  the  crime,  but  only  because  he  had  been  caught. 
Knowing  he  had  already  published  a doctored  account  of  the  occur- 
rence in  an  English  monthly  and  had  found  the  remuneration  exceed- 
ingly useful  in  eking  out  his  existence  in  a Bolivian  prison,  I suggested 
the  writing  of  the  whole  story. 

“ Aye,  but  they  ’re  not  going  to  give  me  time,”  he  answered,  rolling 
and  lighting  a cigarette.  “ I just  got  word  from  Sucre  that  they  have 
confirmed  the  sentence.  Now  as  soon  as  the  president  signs  it,  they’ll 
call  me  out  and  . . .” 

“ Oh,  I don’t  believe  Montes  would  do  that  to  a gringo,”  I remarked 
encouragingly.  “ He  is  a Mason,  too  — ” 

“ Well,  I don’t  care  a rap  whether  they  do  or  not,”  he  replied,  with 

554 


LIFE  IN  THE  BOLIVIAN  WILDERNESS 


considerable  heat,  “ I ’m  perfectly  willing  they  do  it  and  have  it  over 
with.  Even  if  he  commutes  the  sentence,  it  means  ten  years  more 
of  this  ” — he  pointed  to  the  slovenly  yard  and  dirtier  inmates  — “ and 
it ’s  quite  as  bad  as  the  other ; I don’t  know  but  worse.” 

When  he  had  dressed  and  stepped  outside  to  pose  for  a photograph, 
he  presented  rather  a “ natty  ” appearance,  though  his  low-caste  face 
could  not  be  disguised.  Together  we  wandered  through  the  prison. 
“ Thompson,”  in  his  striving  to  be  “ simpatico  ” amid  his  surroundings, 
had  become  quite  a “ caballero  ” in  his  manner,  and  spoke  Spanish 
unusually  well  for  one  of  his  class  and  nationality.  The  prisoners 
found  it  as  necessary  to  earn  their  own  living  inside  the  prison  as  out- 
side, for  though  the  government  theoretically  furnishes  food,  it  would 
not  have  kept  the  smallest  inmate  alive  for  a week.  “ Thompson  ’’ 
asserted  that  he  had  not  touched  prison  fare  since  his  incarceration. 
His  “ cell  ” was  fitted  up  as  a work-shop,  with  a bench,  a small  vise,  and 
such  tools  of  a mechanic  as  he  had  been  able  to  collect,  and  he  earned 
a meager  fare  and  other  necessities  by  mending  watches  and  at  the 
various  tinkering  jobs  that  reached  him  from  outside.  Shoe-making 
was  the  favorite  occupation  of  his  fellow-jailbirds.  More  than  a 
dozen  had  their  open  “ cells  ” scattered  with  odds  and  ends  of  leather 
and  half-finished  footwear.  Formerly,  the  public  had  passed  freely 
in  and  out  of  the  prison,  and  prisoners,  underbidding  free  labor,  since 
their  lodging  was  already  supplie-d  them,  had  always  earned  enough 
to  satisfy  their  appetites.  Now,  the  rules  had  become  somewhat  more 
strict,  at  least  to  outsiders,  a«nd  with  less  opportunity  to  sell  thei-r  wares 
more  than  one  inmate  suffered  from  hunger. 

We  passed  into  one  of  the  two  large  common  rooms,  foul-smelling 
mud  dens  in  which  “ Thompson  ” had  seen  as  many  as  37  persons 
of  both  sexes  and  all  degrees  of  crime,  age,  and  condition  sometimes 
locked  in  for  an  entire  month  by  same  whim  of  carcelero  or  judge. 
The  room  being  completely  innocent  of  any  convenience  whatever,  the 
conditions  of  prisoners  and  prison  when  the  door  might  finally  be 
unlocked  needs  no  description.  Just  now  the  room  was  open,  and 
there  were  but  26  inmates,  men  and  women  mixed  indiscriminately, 
for  there  were  no  rules,  even  at  night,  as  to  the  sleeping-places  of  the 
two  sexes.  The  female  prisoners,  in  fact,  earned  their  food  as  do 
so  many  crucenas  outside,  from  such  of  the  male  inmates  and  soldier 
guards  as  could  reward  their  favors,  and  had  advanced  to  a point 
where  even  privacy  was  no  longer  requisite.  Even  then  several  slov- 
enly couples  reclined  together  on  the  uneven  floor  in  half-amorous 

555 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


attitudes,  and  on  a species  of  crippled  bed  in  a corner  sat  an  evil- 
eyed fellow  of  some  negro  blood,  on  the  floor  at  whose  feet,  her  un- 
curried head  resting  affectionately  between  his  legs,  squatted  a native 
woman  in  the  early  thirties,  who  might  years  before  have  been  almost 
beautiful.  She  had  killed  the  “Turk”  with  whom  she  had  been  liv- 
ing, and  was  for  a time  under  sentence  to  be  shot.  The  president, 
however,  after  making  her  two  accomplices  draw  lots  for  fifteen  years’ 
imprisonment  and  execution  respectively  — by  Bolivian  law  two  per- 
sons cannot  be  executed  for  the  same  crime  — the  supreme  penalty 
falling  upon  a Chilian,  had  commuted  her  sentence  to  ten  years. 
Outside  the  prison  the  rumor  was  prevalent  that  her  lenient  treatment 
arose  from  the  fact  that  she  had  borne  a son  to  the  prosecuting  at- 
torney. 

During  my  stroll  my  companion  ceremoniously  introduced  me  to 
several  of  the  six  “ gringo  ” prisoners.  One  was  a German-Peruvian, 
eight  months  before  the  manager  of  a local  bank,  and  since  then  in 
prison,  still  untried,  on  the  charge  of  disposing  of  bad  drafts.  When  a 
powerful  company  does  not  feel  it  has  sufficient  evidence  to  convict  a 
man  whose  arrest  it  has  caused,  it  is  the  Bolivian  custom  to  see  that  the 
judge  does  not  bring  the  case  to  trial.  Nearly  every  government  of- 
ficial semi-openly  having  his  price,  the  prisons  are  apt  to  hold  chiefly 
those  who  have  underbid  in  the  contest  for  “ justice.”  “ Thompson  ” 
asserted  — and  he  was  corroborated  by  many  outside  the  carcel  — that 
for  some  £200  he  could  make  his  escape.  The  savage  half-Indian  con- 
scripts serving  as  carceleros  vented  their  hatred  of  the  gringos  at  every 
opportunity,  and  made  their  lives  constantly  miserable  by  watching  for 
the  slightest  breaking  of  the  rules  to  give  them  an  excuse  to  shoot. 
In  former  times,  when  rubber  was  high  in  price,  the  Intendente  de  la 
Policia  frequently  sold  prisoners  to  the  “ rubber  kings  ” of  the  Beni 
at  1000  bolivianos  a head,  and  it  was  a rare  victim  of  this  system 
who  did  not  end  his  days  as  a virtual  slave  in  the  Amazonian  forests. 

As  we  shook  hands  at  the  gate  of  the  inner  patio,  “ Thompson  ” re- 
marked : 

“ If  Montes  signs  it,  I ’ll  have  forty-eight  hours  left  with  nothing 
to  do  and  I ’ll  write  you  something.  I believe  tbe  thoughts  of  a man 
waiting  to  be  shot  ” — it  was  the  only  time  he  used  that  word  during 
the  interview  — “ would  make  interesting  reading.  The  ending  would 
be  all  right  if  these  Indians  could  make  a good  job  of  it,  but  they  ’ll 
end  by  bashing  in  my  head  with  the  butts  of  their  muskets,  as  they 
have  all  the  others.” 


556 


LIFE  IN  THE  BOLIVIAN  WILDERNESS 


If  I have  inadvertently  given  the  impression  that  there  are  no  stern 
laws  and  rules  of  personal  conduct  in  Santa  Cruz  de  la  Sierra  let  me 
hasten  to  disavow  it  as  quickly  as  I was  disabused  in  the  matter 
myself ; for  it  was  here  that  I tarnished  my  hitherto  spotless  record 
for  non-arrest  in  South  America.  I had  come  to  give  “ Thompson  ” 
a bundle  of  American  weeklies  and  was  leaving  the  prison  again,  when 
a German  who  had  ridden  in  from  Cochabamba  asked  me  to  serve  as 
interpreter  while  he  procured  a gun  license.  As  we  stepped  into  the 
comandancia,  an  anemic,  yellow-skinned  half-Indian  youth  in  uniform 
shouted  in  the  most  insolent  tone  at  his  command,  “ Take  off  your 
hats ! ” The  German  quickly  snatched  his  close-cropped  bullet  head 
bare,  but  the  tone  aroused  my  antagonism  in  spite  of  myself ; more- 
over, a dozen  unwashed  natives  lounged  about  the  miserable  mud 
hall  with  their  hats  on.  To  obey  the  orders  of  this  class  of  Latin- 
American  officials  requires  a certain  degree  of  humility,  of  which, 
thank  God,  I have  not  a trace.  At  the  second  command  I retorted, 
“What  for?” 

“ In  respect  for  the  Bolivian  government ! ” shrieked  the  evil-eyed, 
ill-smelling  official  behind  the  main  desk. 

“ But  I have  no  respect  whatever  for  the  Bolivian  government,” 
I protested,  warding  off  with  an  elbow  the  boy  soldier  who  was  at- 
tempting to  snatch  the  hat  from  my  head ; and  I stepped  out  into 
the  street.  There  I was  legally  immune.  There  is  no  law  requiring 
one  to  uncover  in  the  streets,  even  in  straight-laced  Santa  Cruz.  But 
the  legal  aspect  of  a case  is  easily  overlooked  in  Bolivia.  The  official 
screamed,  “ Cabo  de  la  Guardia ! ”,  and  there  poured  out  upon  me 
five  boy  soldiers  with  loaded  muskets,  who,  clutching  at  me  like  cats, 
began  pushing  me  back  into  the  prison.  I had  been  long  enough  a 
policeman  myself  to  know  the  folly  of  resisting  arrest,  however  un- 
justified; moreover,  there  was  an  entire  regiment  of  these  little  brown 
fellows  in  town,  most  of  whom  would  be  only  too  happy  to  give  vent 
to  their  dislike  of  gringos. 

Once  I had  entered  an  empty  mud  room  on  the  first  patio,  the  door 
was  quickly  bolted  behind  me  and  I stood  looking  out  through  the 
wooden-barred  window  upon  the  mud-hole  yard,  back  and  forth  across 
which  marched  the  jeering  little  soldiers  and  several  loungers,  grin- 
ning at  me  nastily  behind  their  blackened  stumps  of  teeth.  I was  in 
great  danger  — that  I should  be  late  for  the  dinner  to  which  I had 
been  invited  at  eleven.  For  though  my  arrest  was  not  legal,  those 
responsible  for  it  had  the  very  simple  old  Latin-American  expedient 

557 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


of  holding  me  “ incomunicado  ” and  keeping  everyone  outside  ignorant 
of  my  plight.  I sat  down  on  the  window-ledge  and  fell  to  reading 
the  Spanish  paper  edition  of  Ernst  Haeckel  I was  so  fortunate  as  to 
have  with  me.  A half-hour  passed.  Meanwhile  that  dinner  was  a 
bare  hour  away,  and  formal  feasts  are  not  so  frequent  in  tropical 
Bolivia  as  to  be  missed  without  regret.  Luckily,  I caught  Tommy’s 
eye  as  he  dodged  under  the  eaves  to  escape  a new  cloud-burst  and, 
beckoning  him  to  the  window,  managed  to  say,  before  he  was  driven 
off  by  three  soldiers  with  fixed  bayonets,  “ Go  tell  the  prefect  . . .” 

The  matter  never  got  as  far  as  the  prefect.  No  sooner  did  the 
comandante  of  the  prison  learn  that  a man,  who  only  yesterday  had 
been  hobnobbing  with  the  -supreme  chief  of  the  department,  had  been 
visited  with  the  indignity  of  imprisonment,  than  he  hastened  to  order 
me  set  at  liberty. 

Before  we  leave  Santa  Cruz,  the  story  of  “ Thompson  ” permits  a 
bit  of  anticipation.  Months  later,  in  far  southern  Chile,  I chanced 
to  pick  up  a newspaper,  among  the  scant  foreign  despatches  of  which 
my  eye  fell  upon: 

“Bolivia,  14  May  — In  Santa  Cruz  de  la  Sierra  wa-s  shot  to-day 
the  criminal  ‘ Thompson,’  of  English  nationality,  condemned  to  the 
supreme  penalty  for  "having  as'sassinated  the  conductors  of  money  of 
some  local  houses.”  • 

Another  -half-year  passed  before  there  reached  me  in  Brazil  local 
papers  and  letters  giving  details.  According  to  these,  the  judge  wept 
when  he  read  the  sentence,  but  “ Thompson  ” shook  hands  with  him, 
telling  him  the  sentence  was  just,  and  that  the  only  criticism  he  had 
to  offer  was  that  the  execution  had  been  so  long  delayed.  As  his  last 
favor,  he  asked  that  jail  conditions  be  improved,  that  his  friends 
might  be  more  humanly  housed.  On  his  last  night  he  got  permission 
to  have  a few  of  these  — all  jailbirds  — to  dinner  with  him,  but  re- 
fused to  touch  liquor  himself,  “ so  I shall  be  able  to  take  in  every  de- 
tail clearly.”  In  the  morning  he  informed  friends  that  he  had  parents, 
brothers,  and  sisters  in  London,  and  a wife  and  son  in  the  United 
States.  To  these  he  had  been  writing  since  his  arrest  that  he  was 
engaged  in  an  enterprise  that  would  in  time  make  him  rich,  if  luck 
was  with  him.  On  the  evening  before  his  execution  he  wrote  bidding 
them  all  farewell,  saying  he  had  suddenly  contracted  a tropical  disease 
the  doctors  despaired  of,  and  would  be  dead  by  the  time  they  got 
the  letter.  He  was  shot  at  noon,  while  the  bells  of  the  cathedral 
were  striking,  so  that  nothing  should  be  heard  outside  the  prison. 

558 


LIFE  IN  THE  BOLIVIAN  WILDERNESS 


In  Santa  Cruz  Tommy  fell  victim  to  that  loathsome  ailment  popu- 
larly known  as  “ cold  feet.”  An  attack  of  fever  and  a hazy  promise 
of  employment  for  his  trusty  trowel  were  no  doubt  among  the  causes ; 
it  is  probable,  too,  that  he  had  not  entirely  lost  faith  in  the  attractive- 
ness of  sandy  hair.  But  the  inoculation  was  chiefly  due  to  the  re- 
plies to  our  inquiries  about  the  road  ahead.  These  were  not  exactly  re- 
assuring. It  was  characteristic  of  Tommy,  however,  that  he  pretended 
to  be  eager  to  push  on,  while  secretly  planning  to  remain  behind. 

There  is  one  of  the  sand  streets  of  Santa  Cruz  de  la  Sierra  which 
does  not  run  out  to  nothing  in  the  surrounding  jungle,  but  dwindles 
to  what  is  known  locally  as  the  “ camino  de  Chiquitos,”  and  pushes  on 
to  the  Paraguay  river,  some  400  miles  distant.  “ Road  ” in  the  cru- 
ceno  sense,  however,  means  anything  but  a comfortable  highway. 
As  usual,  the  town  was  scornful  of  the  suggestion  that  two  lone 
gringos  could  make  the  journey  on  foot.  Disheartening  stories  as- 
sailed us  of  the  dangers  from  snakes  and  “ tigers,”  of  the  unending 
pest  of  insects,  of  the  almost  total  lack  of  sleeping-places  and  even  of 
supplies.  For  the  first  week  we  must  carry  all  food  with  us;  in  this 
rainy  season  the  route  was  sure  to  abound  with  chest-deep  mud-holes 
and  miles  of  swamps;  the  last  twenty  leagues,  near  the  Paraguay, 
would  be  completely  inundated  and  impassable  for  months,  until  the 
waters  subsided.  Or,  if  the  rains  did  not  come  on  at  their  accustomed 
time,  there  was  as  much  danger  of  the  country  being  wholly  waterless 
for  long  distances.  Moreover,  beyond  the  Rio  Guapay,  eight  leagues 
east  of  the  capital,  stretched  the  notorious  Monte  Grande,  a dense, 
unbroken  forest  in  which  roamed  wild  Indians  given  to  shooting  six- 
foot  arrows  of  chonta,  or  iron-heavy  black  palm,  from  their  eight-foot 
bows,  with  such  force  that  they  pass  clear  through  a man  at  fifty 
yards.  This  was  said  to  be  quite  painful.  Nor  were  these  mere 
idle  rumors ; we  had  only  to  drop  in  on  one  of  several  men  in  town 
to  be  shown  arrows  taken  from  the  bodies  of  victims,  and  a sojourn- 
ing fellow-countryman  had  several  relics  of  the  tribe  he  had  had  the 
good  fortune  to  see  first  while  prospecting  on  the  banks  of  the  Guapay. 

Reading  Tommy’s  real  opinion  of  the  journey  behind  his  face,  I 
laid  plans  to  continue  alone.  Experienced  travelers  asserted  that 
boiled  water,  a careful  diet,  a selected  medicine-kit,  waterproofs,  a 
tropical  helmet,  and  a woolen  cholera-belt  for  night  chills  were  prime 
necessities.  I had  all  but  six  of  this  half-dozen  requisites.  By  choice 
I should  have  turned  rural  native  entirely  and  worn  a straw  hat, 
a breechclout,  a pair  of  leather  sandals,  and  a towel.  But  life  can 

559 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 

seldom  be  reduced  to  such  charming  simplicity.  Two  things  at  least 
were  indispensable, — a cloth  hammock  and  a mosquitero  to  hang  over 
it ; for  the  only  sleeping-place  on  most  of  the  journey  would  be  that 
which  the  traveler  carried  with  him.  Then  I must  “ hacer  tapeque,” 
as  they  say  in  Santa  Cruz,  or  “ pack  ” a bag  of  rice  and  some  sheets 
of  sun-dried  beef,  to  say  nothing  of  distributing  about  my  person  a 
kodak,  revolver,  cartridges,  and  money  in  various  forms  of  metal. 
Add  to  this  a few  indispensable  garments,  sealed  tins  of  salt  and 
matches,  kitchenette,  photographic  and  writing  materials,  and  the  other 
unavoidable  odds  and  ends  for  a scantily  inhabited  400-mile  trip  of 
unknown  duration,  and  it  will  be  readily  understood  why,  after  mailing 
the  developing-tank  and  even  my  coat,  razor  and  accessories,  I stag- 
gered heavily  across  town  on  January  8th,  to  begin  the  longest  single 
leg  of  my  South  American  journey. 

Fortunately,  the  German  who  had  sought  my  assistance  in  the  matter 
of  the  gun  license,  was  bound  for  at  least  a few  days  in  the  same  direc- 
tion. Heinrich  Konanz,  born  in  Karlsruhe,  had  served  the  last  of 
three  years  as  a conscript  in  the  expedition  against  the  Chinese  Boxers, 
and  had  since  worked  as  a carpenter  in  China  and  California,  until  he 
had  concluded  to  seek  a permanent  home  as  a colonist  in  some  region 
where  population  was  less  numerous.  He  was  largely  innocent  of 
geography,  spoke  habitually  a painful  cross  between  his  once  native 
tongue  and  what  he  fondly  fancied  was  English,  with  a peppering  of 
Chinese,  and  knew  almost  no  Spanish.  The  mule  that  had  carried 
him  from  Cochabamba  he  found  it  necessary  to  turn  into  a pack- 
animal  for  the  tools,  materials,  and  provisions  he  had  purchased  in 
Santa  Cruz,  and  was  to  continue  on  foot.  He  had  been  placidly 
making  plans  to  push  on  alone,  when  rumors  in  his  own  tongue  sud- 
denly reached  him  of  the  Monte  Grande  and  its  playful  Indians. 
His  first  inclination  had  been  to  throw  up  the  sponge  and  return  to 
Cochabamba.  But  his  capital  had  been  greatly  reduced  and  his  hotel 
room  was  heaped  with  the  supplies  sold  him  by  his  local  fellow-coun- 
trymen, who  would  not  have  taken  them  back  at  a fourth  of  the 
original  cost.  He  made  a virtue  of  necessity,  added  a new  rifle  to  his 
revolver  and  shot-gun,  and  offered  to  find  room  on  the  mule  for  the 
heavier  portion  of  my  baggage  in  return  for  the  reassurance  of  my 
company. 

It  was  a brilliant  day  when  I shouldered  the  German’s  rifle,  my 
own  revolver  well  oiled  and  freshly  loaded,  and  led  the  way  out  of 
town.  Mud-holes,  along  which  we  picked  our  way  on  rows  of  the 

560 


Konanz  seated  on  our  baggage  in  the  pelota  de  cuero,  or  "leather  ball  ’’’in  which  we  were  both 
carried  across  the  Rio  Guapay 


The  force  of  one  of  the  four  fortines,  or  "fortresses,”  with  which  the  Bolivian  government 
garrisons  the  Monte  Grande  against  the  savages 


LIFE  IN  THE  BOLIVIAN  WILDERNESS 


whitened  skulls  of  cattle,  soon  gave  place  to  a great  pampa,  with  tall, 
coarse  grass  and  scattered  trees,  across  which  lay  a silent  sand  road 
so  utterly  dry  that  we  had  already  suffered  long  from  thirst  when 
we  reached  the  first  “ well,”  a mud-hole  thick  with  green  slime,  attesting 
by  its  taste  the  also  visible  fact  that  all  the  cattle  for  miles  around 
made  it  their  loafing-place  and  protection  from  the  swarms  of  flies 
and  insects.  Here  we  not  only  drank,  but  filled  the  German’s  water- 
bag.  When  the  liquid  mud  in  this  gave  out,  my  companion  took  to 
lapping  up  that  in  the  cart-ruts  and  the  footprints  of  cattle  along  the 
trail.  I held  out  until  I overtook  a boy  carrying  on  his  head  a pailful 
of  guapuru  (wah-poo-roo),  of  which  I bought  a hatful  for  a medio. 
This  is  a fruit  cruelly  like  a large  luscious  cherry  in  appearance,  grow- 
ing without  a stem  on  the  trunk  of  a gnarly  pampa  tree,  of  a snow-white 
meat  not  particularly  pleasant  to  the  taste,  but  a welcome  antidote  for 
tropical  thirst. 

Twice  during  the  day  we  met  a train  of  heavy,  crude  ox-carts 
roofed  with  sun-dried  ox-hides,  that  recalled  the  “ prairie-schooners  ” 
of  pioneer  days,  eight  oxen  to  each,  creaking  westward  with  infinite 
slowness.  In  the  afternoon  the  forest  closed  in  about  us,  and  we 
plodded  on  through  deep  sand  alternating  with  mud-holes.  Soon  all 
the  woods  about  us  were  screaming  like  a dozen  suffragette  meetings 
in  full  session  and,  fancying  the  uproar  came  from  edible  wild  fowls, 
I crept  in  upon  them,  rifle  in  hand.  To  my  astonishment,  I found  a 
band  of  small  monkeys  shrieking  together  in  a huge  tree-top.  Even 
a monkey  steak  would  not  have  been  unacceptable.  I fired  into  the 
branches.  Instantly  there  fell,  not  the  wherewithal  for  a sumptuous 
evening  repast,  but  the  most  absolute  silence.  The  little  creatures 
did  not  flee,  however,  but  each  sprang  a limb  or  two  higher  and 
watched  my  slightest  movement  with  brilliant,  roving  eyes.  A qualm 
came  upon  me  and  I hurried  after  the  German. 

That  night  we  camped  in  a clump  of  trees  about  a water-hole.  The 
native  who  pointed  out  the  trail  to  it  did  so  in  a surly,  regretful  man- 
ner, as  if  he  resented  the  consumption  by  strangers  who  should  have 
remained  in  their  own  country  of  a priceless  treasure  insufficient  for 
home  consumption.  Down  at  the  bottom  of  a deep  hole  in  the  sand, 
strongly  fenced  with  split  rails,  was  an  irregular  puddle  barely  four 
inches  deep,  full  of  fallen  leaves,  wrigglers,  and  decayed  vegetable 
matter;  yet  from  it  radiated  trails  in  all  directions.  The  blocks  of 
crude  brown  sugar  we  had  purchased  that  morning  had  melted  during 
the  day  and  smeared  everything  within  reach ; the  boiled  leg  of  mutton 

56i 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 

already  whispered  its  condition  to  the  nostrils.  The  breeze  a slight 
knoll  promised  treacherously  died  down,  and  the  swarms  of  insects 
that  sung  about  us  all  night  frequently  struck  home,  in  spite  of  the 
close-knit  mosquitero  that  kept  us  running  with  sweat  until  near  dawn. 

Monkeys  were  already  howling  in  the  nearby  woods  when  we  pulled 
on  our  clothes,  wet  and  sticky,  in  a soggy  morning  that  soon  carried 
out  its  promise  of  rain ; and  parrots  now  and  then  screamed  at  us  in 
dull-weather  mood.  A heavy  shower  paused  for  a new  start  and 
became  a true  jungle  deluge.  My  poncho  would  have  been  useless; 
besides,  it  was  wrapped,  in  Australian  “ swag  ” style,  around  my  pos- 
sessions on  the  mule.  Past  experience  told  me  that  the  only  reliable 
waterproof  in  the  tropics  is  to  let  it  rain  — and  dry  out  again  when 
opportunity  offers.  We  settled  down  to  splash  on  indifferently,  soaked 
through  and  through  from  hat  to  shoes,  dripping  at  every  seam.  The 
weather  was  not  over  warm  either,  and  only  the  heaviest  moments  of 
the  storm  dispersed  the  swarms  of  ravenous  mosquitoes. 

In  dense  woods  punctuated  with  mud-holes,  a yellow  youth  in  two 
cotton  garments  overtook  us  well  on  in  the  afternoon,  and  asked  if 
we  would  need  a “pelota.”  We  would.  He  stopped  at  a jungle 
hut  some  distance  beyond  and  emerged  with  an  entire  ox-hide,  sun- 
dried  and  still  covered  with  the  long  red  hair  of  its  original  owner, 
folded  in  four  like  a sheet  of  writing  paper,  on  his  head.  For  a 
mile  or  more  he  plodded  noiselessly  behind  us.  Then  suddenly  the 
forest  opened  out  upon  the  notorious  Guapay,  or  Rio  Grande,  a yellow- 
brown  stream,  wide  as  the  lower  Connecticut,  flowing  swiftly  north- 
ward to  join  the  Mamore  on  its  journey  to  the  Amazon.  We  splashed 
a mile  or  more  up  along  its  edge,  to  offset  the  distance  we  should  be 
carried  downstream  before  striking  a landing  opposite.  Here  two 
men  of  bleached-brown  skin,  each  completely  naked  but  for  a palm- 
leaf  hat  securely  tied  on,  relieved  our  companion  of  his  load  and  set 
about  turning  it  into  a boat.  These  “ pelotas  de  cuero  ” (“leather 
balls  ”)  are  the  ferries  of  all  this  region,  being  transportable,  whereas 
a wooden  boat,  left  behind,  would  be  stolen  by  the  “ indios  bravos.” 
Around  the  edge  of  the  hide  were  a dozen  loop-holes  through  which 
was  threaded  a cord  that  drew  it  up  into  the  form  of  a rude  tub.  To 
add  firmness  to  this,  the  hat-wearers  laid  a corduroy  of  green  poles 
in  the  bottom.  Then  they  piled  our  baggage  into  it,  set  the  German 
atop,  and  dragged  it  down  the  sloping  mud  bank  into  the  water,  while 
the  youth  coaxed  the  mule  into  the  stream  and  swam  with  it  for  the 
opposite  shore.  This  seemed  load  enough  and  to  spare.  But  when  I 

562 


LIFE  IN  THE  BOLIVIAN  WILDERNESS 


had  fulfilled  my  duties  as  official  photographer  of  the  expedition,  I, 
too,  was  lifted  in,  as  they  would  no  doubt  have  piled  in  Tommy  also, 
had  he  been  with  us,  and  away  we  went,  easily  500  pounds,  speeding 
down  the  racing  yellow  stream,  the  naked  ferrymen  first  wading,  then 
swimming  beside  us,  clutching  the  pelota,  the  “gunwales”  of  which 
were  in  places  by  no  means  an  inch  above  the  water.  Had  the  none- 
too-stout  cord  broken,  the  hide  would  instantly  have  flattened  out  and 
left  us  — for  an  all-too-brief  moment  — like  passengers  on  the  magic 
carpet  of  oriental  fairy-tales. 

Before  and  high  above  us,  where  the  peloteros  coaxed  the  crazy 
craft  ashore,  stretching  like  a Chinese  wall  of  vegetation  further  than 
the  eye  could  follow  in  either  direction,  stood  an  impenetrable  forest, 
the  famous  Monte  Grande,  or  “ Great  Wilderness,”  of  Bolivia.  Here 
was  the  chief  haunt  of  the  wild  Indians  of  the  penetrating  arrow, 
a region  otherwise  uninhabited,  through  which  the  “ road  ” to  the 
Paraguay  squeezes  its  way  for  hundreds  of  miles  almost  without  a 
shift  of  direction.  We  swung  our  hammocks  on  the  extreme  edge  of 
the  river,  where  the  breeze  promised  to  blow  — and  failed  of  its  prom- 
ise, like  most  things  Latin-American.  For  though  the  day  was  not  yet 
spent,  the  journey  through  the  Monte  Grande  is  fixed  in  its  itinerary 
by  the  four  “ garrisons  ” maintained  some  five  leagues  apart  by  the 
Bolivian  government  as  a theoretical  protection  against  the  nomadic 
Indians.  At  dusk  a man  swam  the  river  with  his  clothing  and  pos- 
sessions in  the  brim  of  his  hat,  and  soon  afterward  the  stream  began 
to  rise  so  rapidly  that  it  is  doubtful  if  we  could  have  passed  it  for 
several  days. 

Almost  at  once,  in  the  morning,  we  met  a train  of  nine  enormous 
roofed  carts  of  merchandise  from  Europe  by  way  of  Montevideo, 
each  drawn  by  eight  yoke  of  gaunt,  way-worn  oxen,  straining  hub-deep 
through  the  mire  at  a turtle’s  pace.  The  forest  crowded  them  so 
closely  on  either  hand  that  we  must  back  into  it,  as  into  the  shallow 
niche  of  an  Inca  wall,  and  stand  erect  and  motionless  until  the  train 
had  crawled  by,  the  wilderness  bawling  and  echoing  a half-hour  with 
the  cries  of  the  dozen  drivers  with  their  long  goads  dodging  in  and  out, 
knee-deep  in  mud,  among  the  panting  brutes.  We  met  no  other 
person  during  the  day.  Travelers  through  the  Monte  Grande  go 
always  in  bands,  and  the  ox-drivers  stared  at  us  setting  out  alone,  as 
at  gringo  madmen. 

We  deployed  in  campaign  formation.  Our  revolvers  loose  in  their 
holsters,  the  German  marched  ahead,  closely  followed  by  his  affec- 

563 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


tionate  “ mool,”  while  I brought  up  the  rear  with  his  new  Winchester. 
Mine  was  the  post  of  honor  and  most  promise,  for  the  Indians  of 
the  Monte  Grande  do  not  face  their  intended  victims,  but  spring  from 
behind  a tree  to  shoot  the  traveler  in  the  back,  and  dodge  back  out 
of  sight  again.  They  shoot  seated,  using  the  feet  to  stretch  the 
bow,  a slight  advantage,  in  point  of  time,  to  their  prey.  Rumor  has  it 
that  the  tribe  is  by  nature  peaceful ; but  they  were  long  hunted  for 
sport  and  are  still  shot  on  sight,  with  no  questions  asked,  and  so  have 
come  to  look  upon  all  travelers  as  tribal  enemies.  They  are  said  to  be 
entirely  nomadic,  to  wear  nothing  but  a feather  clout,  and  to  bind 
their  limbs  in  childhood,  so  that  the  forearm  and  the  leg  below  the 
knee  become  mere  bone  and  sinew  with  which  they  can  thrust  their 
way  through  the  spiny  undergrowth  without  pain.  This  improvement 
on  nature  draws  the  foot  out  of  shape,  and  the  footprint  of  a savage, 
showing  only  the  imprint  of  the  heel,  the  outer  edge  of  the  foot,  and 
the  crooked  big  toe,  is  easily  distinguished  from  that  of  the  ordinary 
native.  However,  that  was  not  my  lucky  day,  and  I caught  not  so 
much  as  a kodak-shot  at  a feather  clout,  though  I glanced  frequently 
over  my  shoulder  all  the  day  through. 

But  if  the  Indians  failed  us,  there  were  other  visitations  to  make 
up  for  them.  Every  instant  of  the  day  we  fought  swarms  of  gnats 
and  mosquitos ; though  the  sun  rarely  got  a peep  in  upon  us,  its  damp, 
heavy  heat  kept  us  half-blinded  with  the  salt  sweat  in  our  eyes.  The 
road  was  really  a long  tunnel  through  unbroken  forest  meeting  over- 
head, into  which  the  thorny  undergrowth  crowded  in  spite  of  the 
ox-cart  traffic.  All  day  long,  mud-holes,  often  waist-deep  for  long 
distances,  completely  occupied  the  narrow  forest  lane.  The  region 
being  utterly  flat,  the  waters  of  the  rainy  season  gather  in  the  slightest 
depression,  which  passing  ox-carts  plough  into  a slough  beyond  de- 
scription ; while  the  barest  suggestion  of  a stream  inundates  to  a swamp 
all  the  surrounding  territory.  For  the  first  mile  we  sought,  in  our 
inexperience,  to  tear  our  way  around  these  through  the  edge  of  the 
forest.  But  so  dense  was  this  that  it  barred  us  as  effectually  as  a 
cactus  hedge.  We  took  to  wading,  now  to  the  knees,  now  to  the 
waist,  sometimes  slipping  into  unseen  cart-ruts  and  plunging  to  the 
shoulders  in  noisome  slime. 

It  grew  monotonous,  but  so  does  life  under  the  best  of  conditions. 
Moreover,  whatever  gloom  our  surroundings  created  was  more  than 
offset  by  the  German.  Not  that  he  was  gay,  nor,  indeed,  cheerful 
under  adversity.  But  the  genuine  comedian,  like  an  Italian  Hamlet, 

564 


Jim  and  "Hughtie”  Powell,  Americans  from  Texas  who  have  A jungle  hair-cut 

turned  Bolivian  peons 


LIFE  IN  THE  BOLIVIAN  WILDERNESS 


has  no  inkling  of  his  humor.  Konanz  was  at  his  best  when  he 
fancied  himself  most  tragic,  putting  me  frequently  to  excruciating  labor 
to  preserve  outwardly  that  solemn  gravity  that  was  indispensable  to 
peace  between  us.  He  insisted  on  speaking  “ English.”  This  astound- 
ing tongue  he  had  concocted  by  the  simple  rule  of  learning  the  cor- 
responding English  for  each  German  word,  and  jealously  retaining 
the  German  grammar  and  form ; all  this  with  so  guttural  an  accent 
that  the  hearer  could  not  distinguish  “ lake  ” from  “ leg.”  Thus  I was 
informed  that  “ He  put  it  his  hat  in,”  and  “ He  set  him  by  a boat 
the  river  over.”  Our  snow-white  pack-mule  was  of  that  affectionate 
nature  that  craves  constant  companionship.  But  the  Teuton  had  no 
affection  to  spare,  and  whenever  the  animal  chanced  to  stray  a yard 
from  the  spot  in  which  he  had  left  her,  he  fell  upon  the  poor  brute 
with  a bellow  of  rage : 

“Oh,  py  Gott,  Mr.  Mool ! Ven  I don’t  hat  to  lug  myself  der  loat 
all  to  San  Yozay,  I rhight  avay  shoot  her  der  head  through.  To-mor- 
row, py  Gott,  I bind  her  der  dree  on,  der  . . 

At  sunset  we  waded  through  a barred  gate  into  the  pascana,  or  tiny 
natural  clearing,  of  Canada  Larga,  the  first  of  the  four  fortines.  Five 
miserable  thatched  huts,  some  without  walls  and  the  others  of  open- 
work poles  set  upright,  were  occupied  by  eight  boyish  soldiers  in 
faded  rags  of  khaki  and  ancient  cork  helmets  of  the  same  color,  and 
a slattern  female  belonging  to  the  lieutenant.  The  latter  was  a haughty 
fellow  of  twenty-five,  sallow  with  fever  and  gaunt  from  long  tropical 
residence,  a graduate  of  the  Bolivian  West  Point  in  La  Paz,  and 
permanently  in  command  of  all  the  garrisons  of  the  Monte  Grande. 
The  others  were  two-year  conscripts  between  nineteen  and  twenty-one, 
assigned  to  the  forts  for  a year,  usually  to  be  forgotten  by  the  govern- 
ment and  left  there  months  longer. 

Our  official  paper  ordered  the  commander  to  “ give  us  all  facilities, 
wood  and  water,  and  to  sell  us  food  — provided  there  zvas  any.”  He 
waved  a hand  in  a bored,  tropical  way,  and  two  of  the  handsomest 
children  in  uniform  brought  us  wood,  and  soon  came  lugging  a huge 
bucket  of  water  on  a pole  across  their  shoulders.  What  food  could 
he  sell  us?  Not  a thing.  Some  yucas,  at  least?  Senor,  we  have  only 
half  rations  of  rice  for  ourselves.  But  the  prefect  said  we  could 
depend  . . . The  prefect,  senor,  has  not  sent  us  any  supplies  for  more 
than  a month.  There  was  nothing  left  but  to  cook  some  of  our  own 
rice  and  charqui,  and  try  to  be  thankful  for  even  that  miserable  sub- 
stitute for  food.  Its  staying  powers  were  slight.  Twice  during  the 

565 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


night  I ate  a large  plate  of  it  cold,  and  spent  most  of  the  time  hungry 
at  that.  Not  that  I got  up  to  eat;  much  of  the  night  I wandered 
up  and  down  the  pascana,  fighting  the  mosquitos  and  a tiny  gnat  whose 
bite  was  out  of  all  proportion  to  its  size,  and  which  the  fine  gauze 
mosquitero  designed  for  the  purpose  by  no  means  kept  out,  though  it 
did  effectually  any  breeze  that  stirred. 

The  lieutenant  insisted  on  sending  along  a soldier  to  “ protect  ” us 
from  the  savages.  He  was  a girlish-looking  boy  of  Indian  features, 
armed  with  an  ancient  Winchester  of  broken  butt,  thick  with  rust 
inside  and  out.  Most  of  the  day  he  lagged  far  behind,  for  the  sun- 
dried  stretches  of  road  between  the  swamps  and  mud-holes  hurt  even 
his  calloused  feet.  We  tramped  unbrokenly  for  seven  hours,  the 
endless  forest-wall  close  on  either  hand,  without  sighting  another 
human  being,  until  the  jungle  opened  out  slightly  on  the  little  pascana 
of  Tres  Cruces.  The  sergeant  in  command  dragged  himself  out  a 
few  yards  to  meet  us,  a rifle-shot  having  warned  him  of  our  approach. 
He  had  four  soldiers  and  a gnat-bitten  female.  They  called  the 
bucketful  they  brought  us  from  a swamp,  “ excellent  water.”  It  was 
clear,  to  be  sure,  and  a decided  improvement  on  what  we  had  drunk 
from  the  mud-holes  during  the  day,  the  swampy  taste  not  quite  over- 
whelming. But  it  was  lukewarm  from  lying  out  under  the  sun,  and 
had  at  least  a hundred  tadpoles  swimming  merrily  about  in  it.  One 
dipped  up  a cupful,  picked  out  the  tadpoles  gently  but  firmly,  and 
forced  as  much  of  their  vacated  bath  as  possible  down  the  feverish 
throat. 

The  gnats  of  Tres  Cruces  quickly  got  wind  of  the  arrival  of  fresh 
supplies  and  attacked  us  in  battalions.  The  previous  camp  had  been 
gnatless  compared  to  this.  Known  to-the  natives  as  jejenes,  they  are 
almost  invisible,  yet  they  can  bite  through  a woolen  garment  or  a cloth 
hammock  so  effectively  that  the  mosquito’s  puny  efforts  pass  un- 
noticed in  comparison.  Wherever  they  alight  they  leave  a red  spot 
the  size  of  a mustard-seed  that  itches  and  burns  for  days  afterward. 
What  such  a host  of  them  had  hoped  to  feed  on,  had  we  not  unex- 
pectedly turned  up,  I cannot  guess ; surely  they  were  taking  long 
chances  of  starvation  here  in  the  unpeopled  wilderness.  Under  no 
circumstances  did  they  give  us  a moment  of  respite.  Even  the  sol- 
diers, tropical  born  and  long  accustomed  to  them,  ate  their  supper 
plate  in  hand,  marching  swiftly  up  and  down  the  “ parade-ground  ” 
and  striking  viciously  at  themselves  with  the  free  hand.  We  could 
not  leave  off  fighting  them  long  enough  to  lift  a kettle  off  the  fire, 

566 


LIFE  IN  THE  BOLIVIAN  WILDERNESS 


without  a hundred  instantly  stinging  us  in  as  many  distinct  spots. 
In  bookless  Santa  Cruz  I had  had  the  luck  to  pick  up  a paper  edition 
of  Nietzsche  in  Spanish,  but  even  in  that  tongue  the  journey  through 
an  entire  sentence  was  impossible.  I could  not  write  a word  or  speak 
a sentence  without  pausing  to  slap  savagely  at  some  portion  of  my 
anatomy.  My  notes  of  those  days  are  all  short  and  choppy.  A long 
sentence  was  impossible.  It  seemed  unbelievable  so  tiny  a thing  could 
bite  so.  The  mosquitero  was  useless.  They  could  bite  through  sheet- 
iron.  A real  dinner  would  have  been  a joy,  but  an  hour’s  relief  from 
these  incessant  pests  would  have  outdone  a week  of  banquets.  One 
wanted  to  run  and  dance  and  scream,  but  tired  feet  forbade.  Much 
as  we  needed  rest,  we  must  keep  walking  swiftly  up  and  down  the 
pascana,  wondering  how  long  a man  would  last  on  charqui  and  rice, 
walking  day  and  night.  “ Oh,  py  Gott ! ” cried  Konanz,  attempting 
in  vain  to  slap  himself  between  the  shoulder-blades.  “ In  China  py 
der  Boxer  der  mosquito  he  pinch  is  very  much,  aber  here ! ” 

Tramping  doggedly  back  and  forth  in  the  dusk,  I heard  the  sergeant 
in  his  hut  singing  and  apparently  happy.  I raced  to  his  door.  Eureka ! 
Necessity  is  the  mother  of  invention,  even  among  the  uninventive. 
He  was  swinging  swiftly  back  and  forth  in  his  hammock.  I grasped 
a pack-rope  and  was  soon  rushing  swiftly  through  the  half-arc  of  a 
circle.  The  relief  was  startling.  But  to  work  incessantly  with  the 
arms  was  little  better  than  tramping  the  pascana.  If  only  the  inventor 
of  perpetual  motion  had  not  put  his  invention  off  so  long.  The  relief 
from  torture  quickly  made  me  drowsy.  But  if  the  swinging  flagged 
for  an  instant,  the  jejenes  at  once  brought  me  wide  awake.  Before 
long,  too,  a few  hardy  gnats  solved  the  problem  of  catching  their  prey 
on  the  fly,  like  experienced  “ hoboes.”  More  and  more  learned  the 
trick,  until  I gave  up  in  despair  and  took  once  more  to  tramping  the 
parade-ground ; kept  it  up,  indeed,  most  of  the  brilliant,  moonlit  night. 

In  the  morning  I found  that  ants  had  eaten  into  decorative  fringes 
the  edges  of  my  leather  leggings.  Vampire  bats  had  smeared  our 
white  mule  with  her  own  blood.  For  a long  time  I could  not  make 
the  German  understand  what  had  happened  to  the  animal,  until  I dug 
up  out  of  the  depths  of  memory  the  word  “ Fledermaus.”  To  watch 
him  pack  was  always  amusing  — also  a torture.  He  had  learned  to 
do  everything  in  the  German  style  of  systematized  routine,  in  which 
the  longest  way  round  is  always  the  shortest  way  between  two  points ; 
and  he  knew  nothing  of  “ efficiency,”  of  that  dovetailing  of  work  in 
such  a way  as  to  hasten  the  process.  Instead  of  lighting  a fire  first  and 

567 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


having  his  breakfast  ready  by  the  time  he  was  dressed,  he  must  be 
entirely  garbed  before  touching  a stick  or  a pot;  and  so  on  clear 
through  the  loading.  However -often  he  made  up  the  pack,  each  detail 
must  be  laboriously  thought  out  again,  and  as  he  could  never  think 
of  more  than  one  thing  at  a time,  the  operation  was  endless.  Bring 
him  what  he  needed  to  load  next,  and  he  stared  stony-eyed  at  me,  as 
if  wondering  why  I was  trying  to  disturb  his  meditations.  Though 
we  rose  at  dawn,  we  were  fortunate  to  be  off  before  the  sun  had 
surmounted  the  jungle  tree-tops. 

The  sergeant  insisted,  languidly  and  tropically,  on  sending  one  of 
his  armed  boys  along.  We  refused.  Should  anything  have  happened 
to  the  child,  such  as  a sprained  ankle  in  “ protecting  ” us  from  the 
savages,  we  could  never  have  forgiven  ourselves.  All  day  long  we 
tramped  due  eastward  through  unbroken  forest.  Monotonously  the 
swamps  and  mud-holes  continued.  It  would  not  have  been  so  bad 
could  we  have  waded  all  the  way  barefoot ; but  the  sun-dried  stretches 
between  made  shbes  imperative.  Never  a patch  of  clearing,  never  a 
sign  of  human  existence  — though  I still  glanced  frequently  over  my 
shoulder  — never  the  suggestion  of  a breeze  to  temper  the  heat  or  to 
break  the  ranks  of  the  swarming  insects!  We  threw  ourselves  face- 
down at  any  mud-hole  or  cart-rut,  gratefully,  to  drink.  “ It  was 
crawlin’  an’  it  stunk,  but  ” — anything  that  can  by  any  stretch  of  the 
word  be  called  water  is  only  too  welcome  in  tropical  Bolivia.  The 
red-hot  poison  with  which  the  gnats  of  days  past  had  inoculated  us 
from  head  to  foot  itched  murderously.  Amateur  wilderness  travelers 
have  a theory  that  “ dope  ” smeared  over  the  body  will  afford  protec- 
tion in  such  cases,  but  it  would  be  a strong  concoction  indeed  that 
could  rout  the  jejenes  of  the  Monte  Grande.  The  only  method  is  to 
get  bit  and  heal  again,  as  one  gets  wet  and  dries  again,  or  goes  astray 
and  finds  oneself  again.  The  one  absolute  rule  is,  Don’t  scratch! 
Not  to  scratch  may  drive  the  sufferer  mad,  but  to  do  so  will  drive  him 
doubly  insane ; and  swamp  water  is  infectious  to  any  abrasion  of  the 
skin,  and  an  open  sore  is  the  greatest  peril  of  tropical  travel. 

Let  it  not  be  fancied,  however,  that  life  was  sad  even  with  these 
drawbacks.  The  song  of  the  jungle  was  unbroken,  the  brilliant  sun- 
shine joyful,  for  all  its  heat.  In  places  the  road  was  completely  veiled 
by  clouds  of  beautiful  white  butterflies.  Sweating  freely,  there  was 
a spontaneous  play  of  the  mental  spirits  and  a sense  of  splendid  phys- 
ical well-being,  not  the  mind-paralyzing  gloom  of  our  northern  win- 
ters. Up  on  the  high  plateau  the  mind  might  work  as  freely,  but 

568 


LIFE  IN  THE  BOLIVIAN  WILDERNESS 


with  this  difference:  there  it  seemed  to  be  using  itself  up,  each  period 
of  exaltation  being  followed  by  the  feeling  that  one  was  much  older, 
much  more  worn  out,  while  here  there  were  no  such  after  effects. 
Though  we  drank  water  which,  in  civilization,  would  have  caused  us 
to  die  of  cramps  within  an  hour,  the  constant  sweating  carried  off  its 
evil  effects,  and  though  gaunt  and  gnat-bitten,  we  both  looked  “ the 
picture  of  health.”  The  main  rule  for  keeping  well  in  the  tropics  is  to 
live  on  the  country,  to  avoid  canned  food  and  dissipation,  and  above  all 
to  get  plenty  of  hard  exercise  and  exposure  to  the  elements.  Un- 
fortunately, where  food  is  most  needed,  it  is  most  difficult  to  obtain. 

A toilsome  eighteen  miles  ended  at  Pozo  del  Tigre  — there  was  some- 
thing fetching  about  the  name  of  this  third  fortin, — the  “ Tiger’s 
Drinking-place.”  Here  were  four  boys,  a cossack  post  in  command  of 
a corporal ; also  at  last  there  was  something  for  sale,  for  some  one  had 
planted  a patch  of  corn  back  in  the  forest.  Two  soldiers  brought  us 
choclos  and  huiro, — green-corn  for  ourselves  and  stalks  of  the  same 
for  the  mule.  The  conscripts  preferred  coffee  and  rice  in  payment, 
for  money  is  of  slight  value  beyond  the  Rio  Grande,  but  demanded  five 
times  what  the  stuff  was  worth.  It  was  not  sweet-corn,  and  was  either 
half-grown  or  overripe,  but  was  welcome  for  all  that.  We  threw  the 
ears  into  the  fire  and  raked  them  out,  to  munch  what  was  not  entirely 
burned  or  still  raw.  The  jejenes  made  it  impossible  to  hold  them  over 
the  fire  to  toast.  We  squatted  so  closely  over  the  blaze  it  all  but  burned 
our  garments,  yet  the  relief  was  so  great,  in  spite  of  the  smoke  in  our 
eyes,  that  we  all  but  fell  asleep  into  the  fire. 

The  life  of  these  garrisons  is  dismal  in  the  extreme.  The  soldiers 
had  absolutely  no  drill  or  other  fixed  duty.  In  most  cases  they  were 
too  apathetic  to  plant  anything,  even  to  dig  a well,  however  heavily  time 
hung  on  their  hands,  preferring  to  starve  on  half-rations,  to  choke  in 
the  dry  season  and  drink  mud  in  the  wet,  rather  than  to  exert  them- 
selves. Each  “ fort  ” had  in  the  center  of  the  “ parade-ground  ” a 
crude  horizontal-bar  made  of  a sapling.  But  it  was  used  only  for 
a languid  moment,  when  utter  ennui  drove  some  one  to  it.  The  im- 
possibility of  “ team-work  ” among  Latin-Americans  was  never  more 
clearly  demonstrated  than  by  the  fact  that  each  soldier  cooked  his  own 
food  separately  three  times  a day  over  his  own  stick  fire.  There  was 
not  faith  enough  among  them  even  to  permit  division  of  labor  in 
bringing  fire-wood.  Each  set  his  marmita,  a soldier’s  tin  cook-pot 
shaped  to  fit  between  the  shoulders,  on  the  ends  of  burning  sticks  and 
sat  constantly  on  his  heels  beside  it,  lest  it  spill  over  as  one  of  the 

569 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


fagots  burned  away.  The  fellows  were  astonished  to  learn  the  use  of 
Y-shaped  sticks  for  hanging  their  kettles. 

Toward  morning  I slept  an  hour  or  two  from  utter  exhaustion. 
It  was  astonishing  how  one  recuperated  for  all  the  day  ahead  with  so 
short  a rest.  After  all,  tramping  is  not  like  mental  labor ; a brief  re- 
pose is  all  that  is  necessary.  The  savages  having  deceived  us  for  three 
days,  we  lessened  our  burdens  by  fastening  rifle  and  shotgun  within 
quick  reach  on  the  mule,  though  still  keeping  our  revolvers  handy. 
Wild  animals  are  commonly  hidden  away  in  the  silence  of  the  forest, 
even  in  such  wildernesses,  and  rarely  cross  a path  used  by  man ; but 
they  are  not  always  unseen.  We  were  tramping  side  by  side  when  I 
pointed  excitedly  at  the  narrowing  vista  of  the  road  ahead. 

“ Deer  ! ” I cried. 

The  German,  his  mind  perhaps  on  Indians,  all  but  sprang  over  his 
mule.  Some  two  hundred  yards  ahead  a reddish  fawn  stood  grazing, 
and  fresh  meat  would  have  been  more  acceptable  just  then  than  eternal 
riches.  As  a three-year  soldier  it  was  surely  my  companion’s  place 
to  shoot ; besides,  the  rifle  and  cartridges  were  his.  But  he  marched 
stolidly  forward.  With  no  officer  behind  to  give  a stentorian  com- 
mand, his  mind  refused  to  work.  Every  step  was  increasing  the 
probability  of  seeing  a splendid  venison  repast  for  ourselves  and  for 
the  soldiers  ahead  bound  away  into  the  trackless  forest. 

“ Schiisse  doch ! ” I cried,  in  a hoarse  whisper. 

Alas  ! I had  overlooked  the  preliminary  routine  of  “ Ready ! Load ! 
Aim ! ” The  German  snatched  hastily  and  blindly  at  the  pack,  leveled 
a gun,  and  fired.  A discharge  of  bird-shot  sprinkled  the  nearby  tree- 
trunks,  and  the  startled  deer  sprang  with  one  leap  into  the  unknown. 
Konanz  had  caught  up  the  shotgun  instead  of  the  rifle ! 

It  must  not  be  gathered,  however,  that  he  was  not  an  effective 
hunter,  given  prey  fitted  to  his  abilities.  All  this  region  is  noted  for 
its  petas,  a large  land-turtle,  with  the  empty  charred  shells  of  which 
any  camping-ground  is  sure  to  be  scattered.  During  the  afternoon 
the  German  actually  ran  one  down. 

Tied  on  the  pack,  it  arrived  at  the  fourth  and  last  forth  of  the 
Monte  Grande,  Guayritos,  a larger  clearing  surrounded  by  matorrales 
or  palm-tree  swamps,  and  noted  for  attacks  by  the  savages.  The  cor- 
poral ordered  one  of  his  three  men  to  prepare  the  turtle.  He  split 
it  open  with  a machete  and,  removing  all  the  meat,  spitted  the  liver, 
the  chief  delicacy,  on  a stick,  while  I set  the  rest  to  boiling.  When  it 
had  cooked  for  an  hour,  the  addition  of  a handful  of  rice  and  a chip 

570 


LIFE  IN  THE  BOLIVIAN  WILDERNESS 


of  salty  rock  made  the  most  savory  repast  of  several  days.  All 
through  the  cooking  Konanz  had  sat  moodily  by,  fighting  clouds  of 
jejenes  and  smoking  furiously  for  protection.  When  the  meal  was 
ready  he  refused  to  touch  it.  Evidently  turtle  is  not  eaten  in  the 
German  army.  But  for  once  the  inner  man  all  but  overcame  the  iron 
discipline  of  years.  It  may  have  been  the  smoke  that  brought  tears 
to  his  eyes  as  I fell  upon  the  mess ; at  any  rate  he  moved  away  from 
the  fire  and  went  to  tramp  gloomily  up  and  down  the  edge  of  the 
pascana.  The  thick  muscles,  that  in  life  are  so  strong  that  a man  can- 
not pull  a leg  from  its  shell  by  main  force,  were  of  a dark-red  meat 
far  superior  to  the  finest  chicken  — unless  appetite  deceived  me  — 
and  almost  boneless.  The  comatose  condition  induced  by  the  feast 
lasted  with  only  an  occasional  break  all  night,  so  that  I slept  consider- 
erably,  even  though  the  gnats  roared  about  my  net  like  a raging  sea 
on  a distant  cliff-bound  coast,  and  a few  hundred  managed  to  gain 
admittance. 

A tropical  shower  was  raging  when  we  finished  loading.  Even  the 
soldiers  were  in  a snarling  mood.  The  going  was  so  slippery  that  it 
was  painful.  For  long  distances  there  were  camelones  or  barriales,  as 
the  interminable  corduroy-like  mud  ridges  with  troughs  of  slime  be- 
tween them  are  called.  Every  step  was  perilous,  until  \ye  were 
splashed  and  soaked  from  hat-crown  down ; after  that  a misstep  and 
a sprawl  did  not  matter.  Skeletons  of  oxen  were  numerous  along  the 
way.  When  the  rain  ceased,  the  day  remained  thick,  and  the  heat  was 
heavy  enough  to  cut  with  a spade.  For  long  stretches  we  waded  waist- 
deep  through  swamps  of  long  green  grasses.  A few  slight  pascanas 
began  to  break  the  endless  forest.  In  one  of  them,  and  scattered  far 
beyond,  we  met  the  first  travelers  since  entering  the  woods, — four 
rusty  and  mud-plastered  wagons,  hopelessly  mired,  others  with  their 
several  yokes  of  oxen  lying  indifferently  in  water,  mud,  or  on  dry 
land. 

That  afternoon  our  journey  seemed  to  have  come  ignominiously  to 
an  end.  An  immense  swamp  or  lake  a half-mile  wide  spread  across 
the  trail  and  far  away  in  both  directions  into  the  now  thinner  forest, 
the  notorious  “ curiche  de  Tuna.”  We  attempted  to  flank  it,  only  to 
have  a faint  side  path  end  in  the  impassable  tangles  of  an  even  greater 
swamp.  Wandering  in  this  for  an  hour,  we  regained  the  road  at  last, 
and,  putting  everything  damageable  in  our  hats  and  strapping  our  re- 
volvers about  our  necks,  attempted  the  crossing.  The  lake  proved 
only  chest-deep,  but  the  glue-like  mud-bottom  all  but  swallowed  up 

57i 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


the  mule,  and  the  pack  emerged  streaming  water  from  every  corner. 

The  sun  was  getting  low  when  we  sighted  a little  wooded  hill  above 
the  sea-flat  forest  ahead.  The  road  dodged  the  hillock,  however,  and 
we  slushed  hopelessly  on  through  endless  virgin  forest.  Night  was 
coming  on.  The  insignificance  of  man  in  these  primeval  woods  was 
appalling.  Suddenly  a large,  rail-fenced  cornfield  appeared  in  a 
clearing  beside  the  “ road,”  but  this  plunged  on  again  into  the  wilder- 
ness without  disclosing  any  other  sign  of  humanity.  Darkness  was 
upon  us  when  a man  in  white  rode  out  of  the  gloom  ahead,  and  all  but 
fell  from  his  mule  in  astonishment.  We  had  passed  unseen  the  branch 
trail  to  the  scattered  hamlet  of  El  Cerro,  a score  of  thatched  huts, 
constituting  the  first  civilian  dwelling  of  man  beyond  the  Rio  Grande. 


572 


The  old  stone  and  brick  church  and  monastery  of  San  Jose,  erected  by  the  Jesuits,  typical 
of  the  architecture  of  their  “reductions “ throughout 44 Guarani  Land " 


The  fatherly  old  cura  of  San  Jos6  standing  before  the  Jesuit  sun-dial  in  the  patio  of  the 
ruined  monastery,  now  the  free  abode  of  travelers.  The  all-but- 
horizontal  shadow  across  the  dial  shows  6:30  A.  M. 


CHAPTER  XXI 


SKIRTING  THE  GRAN  CHACO 

WE  took  possession  of  a galpon,  a thatched  roof  on  poles,  up 
in  the  edge  of  the  jungle.  But  the  anticipated  feast  was 
scanty.  El  Cerro  had  little  to  sell  and  less  desire  to  sell  it. 
Konanz  was  so  completely  worn  out  that  he  threw  himself  down  sup- 
perless, without  even  swinging  his  “ hang-net.”  After  a hut  to  hut 
canvass  I coaxed  a cerrito  to  sell  a pound  of  fresh  beef,  which,  with 
rice  and  some  little  red  beans,  made  such  a stew  as  roused  even  the 
German  from  his  stupor.  We  topped  it  off  with  the  succulent  luxury 
of  an  empanisado,  a smeary  block  of  crude,  dark-brown,  unpurified 
sugar,  wrapped  in  leaves  and  costing  eight  times  what  it  would  have  in 
the  jungles  of  north  Peru.  Of  this  we  each  ate  fully  a pound,  so  great 
was  our  craving  for  sweets.  Gnats  were  few  in  El  Cerro,  and  we 
slept  such' a night  as  seldom  comes  to  the  tropical  wanderer. 

Two  of  them,  for  that  matter.  For  a time  next  morning  it  looked 
as  if  I should  have  to  continue  alone,  “ packing  ” my  own  food  and 
possessions.  Konanz  liked  the  appearance  of  the  soil  round  about  El 
Cerro  and  was  half  inclined  to  settle  there.  We  went  to  discuss  the 
matter  with  the  horseman  of  the  night  before,  a Spaniard  long  resident 
in  the  region,  I acting  as  interpreter.  But  in  spite  of  my  over-fairness 
in  trying  not  to  influence  his  plans,  the  German  decided  to  push  on  a 
few  days  further,  chiefly  because  the  best  land  was  largely  held  by 
absentee  owners.  But  he  insisted  on  resting  for  a day.  We  removed 
some  of  the  grime  of  travel  and  dried  out  ourselves  and  possessions, 
and  in  the  end  even  “ fed  up.”  For,  seeing  us  by  daylight,  the  people 
of  El  Cerro  regained  confidence  and  decided  that  they  had  more  to  sell 
than  they  had  fancied.  For  twenty  centavos  a woman  brought  us  the 
first  bucketful  of  clear  water  we  had  seen  beyond  Santa  Cruz.  I 
canvassed  the  town  thoroughly  and  gleaned  some  green  plantains, 
three  eggs,  and  a sheet  of  charqui,  and  finally  metamorphized  sixty 
centavos  into  a spring  chicken.  Most  of  the  inhabitants  were  too 
apathetic  to  plant  anything  to  break  the  endless  monotony  of  their  rice 

573 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


diet,  to  say  nothing  of  being  too  selfish  to  part  with  what  little  they  did 
grow.  Their  clothing  consisted  of  two  calico  garments  and  a straw 
hat  for  the  men  and  a species  of  flying  night-dress  for  the  women ; and 
their  industry  was  chiefly  confined  to  lying  in  a hammock  in  the  shade. 
The  women  carried  their  children  astride  a hip,  as  in  the  Orient,  the 
Andean  custom  of  slinging  the  papoose  on  the  back  having  entirely 
disappeared.  Each  family  kept  a smudge  fire  burning  just  outside 
the  door,  as  a protection  against  the  jejenes.  Rested  up  and  some- 
what relieved  from  the  “ pinch  ” of  insects,  Konanz  grew  reminiscent 
and  now  and  then  prefaced  some  characteristically  Teutonic  anecdote 
with  some  such  dreamy  remark  as : 

“ In  China  ve  every  day  chip  more  ass  two  hunderd  heads  from  der 
Boxers  off.” 

Beyond  El  Cerro  the  landscape  changes.  The  dense  Monte  Grande 
with  its  glue-like  loam  gives  place  to  a few  suggestions  of  rocks  and 
hills,  and  the  palm-trees  and  frondoso  vegetation  characteristic  of  Chi- 
quitos  appear.  From  the  “ Panteon,”  a bit  of  clearing  in  the  jungle, 
with  blackened  wooden  crosses  tied  together  with  jungle  creepers 
standing  over  the  graves  of  former  residents  of  El  Cerro,  we  caught 
a short-cut  through  somewhat  thinner  forest  to  the  scattered  hamlet 
of  Motococito,  so  named  from  the  motocu  with  which  the  roofs  are 
thatched.  Then  we  went  on  all  day  without  another  sight  of  humanity. 
Now  and  again  the  trail  undulated  over  little  rocky  ridges,  where  the 
woods  were  a bit  more  open  and  the  danger  from  wild  Indians  — if 
there  ever  was  any  — decreased.  All  day  the  unshaded  tropical  sun 
beat  down  upon  us  like  molten  lead.  In  the  afternoon  an  enormous 
palmar, — a swamp  with  a sort  of  leaf-and-bulb  growth  protruding 
from  the  water  and  thickly  grown  with  slender  palm-trees  — opened 
out  on  our  left  and  we  should  have  had  to  wade  for  miles  chest-deep 
but  for  a new  trail  recently  cut  along  the  edge  of  the  stony,  wooded 
hills,  not  always  out  of  reach  of  the  rising  waters.  Birds  large  and 
small,  from  herons  to  noisy  parrakeets,  enlivened  the  vast,  flooded 
wilderness. 

About  four,  we  made  out  through  the  salt  sweat  in  our  eyes  the 
first  cattle-ranch  beyond  the  Rio  Grande,  and  soon  limped  into  the 
corral  of  the  “ Estancia  Equito,”  at  the  foot  of  a slight  knoll.  A large 
two-story  house  in  wretched  condition  faced  a yard  overrun  with  swine 
and  carpeted  with  the  trodden  droppings  of  animals.  From  the  bal- 
cony above,  a surly  Indian-negro  female  grumpily  gave  us  permission 
to  spend  the  night  where  we  were,  and  offered  no  further  assistance. 

574 


SKIRTING  THE  GRAN  CHACO 


Konanz  had  dropped  on  his  back  in  the  first  patch  of  shade  and  could 
not  be  stirred,  even  to  unload  the  mule ; which  was  as  well,  for  when 
tired  out  he  was  hopelessly  rattle-brained  and  apt  to  be  of  more  an- 
noyance than  assistance.  While  I piled  our  possessions  into  a covered 
cart  out  of  reach  of  the  militant  pigs,  he  complained  of  being  ill  and 
for  the  first  time  accepted  some  quinine  pills.  Evidently  these  are 
permitted  the  Kaiser’s  troops,  once  they  are  visibly  ailing.  The  mean- 
ness of  the  estancieros  was  so  Bolivian  that  they  would  not  even  point 
out  a water-hole.  I hobbled  about  for  some  time  without  finding 
anything  better  than  a hog-wallow,  which  dogs,  fowls,  and  the  Indian 
servants  used  indiscriminately.  The  breath  of  the  cattle  corral  drove 
off  the  insects  somewhat,  but  the  inhabitants,  two  and  four-legged, 
gave  us  no  peace  where  I had  swung  the  hammocks  after  much  effort. 
I coaxed  the  German  to  his  feet,  and  with  half  the  load  on  the  mule, 
half  on  my  own  back,  led  the  way  a few  hundred  yards  down  the  road 
to  some  abandoned  reed-and-mud  shacks.  It  required  a considerable 
tramp  to  gather  dry  wood,  and  the  water,  sickly  warm  and  ill-scented, 
had  to  be  carried  a long  distance  from  a swamp  completely 
covered  with  a weedy  bulb.  Luckily,  we  had  acquired  in  El  Cerro 
the  “sister”  of  yesterday’s  chicken,  which,  in  spite  of  having  jolted 
on  the  pack  all  day  under  the  blazing  sun,  was  still  half-alive.  By  the 
time  I had  “ chipped  ” off  its  head,  performed  the  autopsy  with  a 
dull  machete,  and  finally  sat  down  to  supper  — quickly  to  get  up  again 
under  the  flagellation  of  insects  — black  tropical  night  had  fallen, 
and  it  was  not  easy  to  fetch  more  water  to  wash  the  dishes,  without 
falling  into  the  source  of  supply.  The  German  had  not  stirred  since 
he  had  dropped  on  his  back  again  — except  to  drink  a pail  of  soup 
and  eat  two  drumsticks  and  a wing.  Then  I must  fetch  another 
sackful  of  water,  for  the  sweat  of  the  day,  drying  on  the  body,  made 
the  gnat-bitten  skin  so  many  square  inches  of  torture.  Under  the 
circumstances  bathing  was  no  easy  task.  To  have  calmly  disrobed 
would  have  been  to  be  instantly  flayed  alive  by  the  army  of  insects. 
I piled  on  brush  until  the  flames  blazed  high,  though  artificial  heat 
was  not  exactly  required,  then  threw  sand  upon  them  until  only  a 
heavy  smudge  remained.  Standing  astride  this,  weeping  copiously, 
mosquitos  and  jejenes  falling  furiously  in  massed  formation  upon 
any  patch  of  skin  for  an  instant  unsmoked,  I poured  the  sackful  over 
me,  and  finally  rolled  into  my  hammock  in  the  streaming  moonlight 
between  two  palm-trees. 

Binder  the  mosquitero  the  sweat  ran  in  streams  along  my  itching 

575 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


skin;  outside  it  millions  of  insects  fought  to  reach  me,  not  a few  suc- 
ceeding. Bulls  wandered  by,  bellowing  in  amorous  anger.  Now  and 
then  one  paused  to  sniff  at  me,  pawed  the  earth  savagely,  and  thrust  his 
snout  and  horns  madly  into  it.  Long  rolls  of  thunder  sounded  in  the 
east,  growing  louder  and  nearer.  The  flashes  of  lightning  became 
almost  continuous.  But  the  sudden  coolness  and  the  fleeing  of  the 
insects  before  the  rising  wind  gave  such  a relief  from  torture  that  I 
fell  quickly  asleep.  Suddenly  huge  raindrops  struck  me  in  the  face, 
and  before  I could  snatch  down  the  hammock  and  race  for  one  of  the 
ruined  shacks,  the  skies  were  pouring.  Then  I must  go  back  for  my 
possessions,  the  damageable  portion  of  which  I had  taken  the  pre- 
caution to  tie  in  a bundle.  Konanz  had  gone  to  no  such  trouble,  so 
that  all  he  owned  was  scattered  over  the  surrounding  country,  and  such 
things  as  we  were  able  to  snatch  in  the  flashes  of  lightning  proved  in 
the  morning  to  be  those  that  could  best  have  stood  a wetting.  We 
swung  our  hammocks  again  in  separate  shacks,  and  enjoyed  some  relief 
from  heat  and  insects.  But  only  a corner  of  the  split-bamboo  roof 
above  me  did  not  leak  like  a sieve,  and  that  was  not  sufficient  to  cover 
more  than  half  my  length. 

The  rain  had  spoiled  a tolerable  road,  tons  of  which  we  carried 
along  in  the  first  fatiguing  miles  of  slipping  and  sliding  with  every 
step.  All  day  we  slapped  through  “ der  chungle  ” with  no  other  sound 
than  the  swish  of  our  footsteps,  as  monotonously  rhythmical  as  the 
ticking  of  a clock.  The  mule  had  transferred  her  affections  to  me, 
perhaps  because  I did  not  use  a cudgel  on  her  flanks  or  torture  her 
ears  with  a stentorial  guttural  bellow  at  every  step,  and  no  dog  ever 
followed  a fond  master  more  closely.  Had  I climbed  a tree,  the  ani- 
mal would  certainly  have  got  up  after  me  somehow.  Konanz  was 
therefore  advanced  to  rear-guard.  The  woods  being  a bit  more  open, 
we  managed  to  dodge  some  of  the  sloughs  by  crawling  around  them, 
though  at  the  expense  of  being  torn  and  cut  by  cactus,  wild  pine-apple 
leaves,  and  every  known  species  of  thorny  tropical  undergrowth,  so 
that  each  day  saw  us  bleeding  from  a score  of  superficial  lacerations 
and  our  clothing  rapidly  becoming  a tissue  of  tatters.  But  the  mule 
hated  to  wet  her  dainty  feet,  and  must  be  pushed  bodily  into  each 
mud-hole  and  driven  through  it  with  loud  words  and  well-aimed  clods, 
even  then  often  turning  back  to  follow  me  through  the  underbrush. 
Once,  in  mid-morning,  when  I fancied  her  well  across  a slough,  I 
heard  a crashing  in  the  brush  behind  me  and  turned  just  in  time  to 

576 


Saddle-steers  take  the  place  of  horses  and  mules  in  the  muddy  parts  of  tropical  Bolivia. 
Rate  of  travel : about  two  miles  an  hour 


Henry  Halsey,  the  American  rancher  of  tropical  Bolivia,  and  his  family 


SKIRTING  THE  GRAN  CHACO 


see  the  affectionate  animal  emerge  stark  naked  from  between  two 
trees,  the  pack  stripped  completely  off  her. 

“ Now  you  see  vat  you  do ! ” cried  the  German  tearfully. 

“ What  who  did?  ” I demanded.  “ Is  it  any  fault  of  mine  that  the 
sex  pursues  me  through  thick  and  thin  ? ” 

But  he  was  already  studying  out  which  knot  of  the  diamond-hitch 
to  tackle  first  in  such  an  emergency. 

In  a way  it  would  have  been  easier  to  carry  my  own  bundle  than 
to  work  for  and  humor  the  German  so  incessantly.  A species  of  trop- 
ical madness,  familiar  to  many  travelers  in  the  wilds,  frequently  came 
upon  him.  The  simple  question  of  whether  or  not  he  wished  a block 
to  sit  on  would  bring  from  him  a roar  of  rage,  as  if  he  who  did  not 
know  his  wishes  in  the  matter  were  the  king  of  fools.  It  was  all 
but  impossible  to  keep  up  my  notes,  to  say  nothing  of  lifting  myself 
above  the  surroundings  by  an  occasional  page  of  Nietzsche.  If  I 
dared  draw  out  pen  or  book  during  a pause  in  the  shade  at  noonday, 
steeling  myself  against  the  swarming  insects,  my  companion  took  to 
looking  askance  at  such  occupation.  Like  most  illiterates  — meaning 
by  that  those  who  can,  but  have  not  the  habit  of  reading  — he  sub- 
consciously resented  such  action.  Perhaps  it  is  n’t  done  in  the  best 
circles  of  the  German  army.  He  had  not  heard  of  Nietzsche,  but 
admitted  during  a cheerful  mood  that  it  sounded  like  a German  name. 
In  most  cases  he  quickly  found  some  useless  topic  of  conversation, 
or  some  chore  for  me  to  do,  going  so  far  as  to  fly  into  an  open  rage 
if  I ignored  these  hints.  His  moods  were  varied.  From  the  deepest 
gloom,  in  which  he  would  not  answer  yes  or  no  to  the  simplest  ques- 
tion, he  would  grow  suddenly  bland  and  garrulous,  almost  maudlin 
in  his  good  humor,  from  no  apparent  cause,  and  a bare  half-hour  after 
some  fit  of  rage  he  would  be  bellowing  songs  of  the  Fatherland  in  a 
rmice  to  call  doAvn  upon  us  all  the  savages  of  the  region,  had  the  peril 
not  been  neutralized  by  a lack  of  tunefulness  tending  to  produce  the 
opposite  effect.  The  German  army  ration,  he  took  frequent  occasion 
to  specify,  consists  of  exactly  so  many  grams  of  this,  that,  and  the 
other,  and  Konanz  considered  any  man  who  wanted  his  supplies  in  any 
other  proportions  a pervert,  a weakling,  and  a rascal. 

Once  we  passed  a train  of  ox-cars  laden  with  boxes  of  merchandise 
marked  “ Via  Montevideo  en  transito  para  Bolivia,”  suggesting  that  the 
Atlantic  was  becoming  more  accessible  than  the  Pacific.  Most  of  them 
also  bore  the  information  “ Ausfuhrgut,”  denoting  their  origin ; and  all 

577 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


were  so  old  and  weather-worn  that  they  seemed  to  have  been  months 
on  the  road.  Indeed,  goods  for  Santa  Cruz  have  been  known  more 
than  once  to  be  two  years  en  route.  The  government  seeks  to  make 
this  trans-Bolivian  route  more  popular  by  reducing  by  15  percent  the 
duty  on  imports  by  way  of  Puerto  Suarez. 

Beyond  a swamp  which  we  managed  only  partly  to  dodge  we  met  a 
disorganized  band  of  soldiers,  each  attended  by  his  chola,  who  might  be, 
but  probably  in  most  cases  was  not,  his  wife,  crawling  painfully  toward 
Santa  Cruz  with  strange  assortments  of  odds  and  ends  on  their  backs, 
including  the  indispensable  hammock  each  and  several  babies.  Ac- 
cording to  them,  the  next  settlement  was  so  far  distant  that  we  gave  up 
hope  of  reaching  it  that  day  and  camped  in  the  road,  where  there  was 
barely  room  to  pile  our  baggage  beside  a mud-hole  for  cooking  and 
drinking.  Every  hint  of  breeze  was  cut  off  by  the  forest  walls  high 
above  us,  and  the  night  that  followed  our  stew  of  rice,  beans,  and 
charqui  was  one  to  be  quickly  forgotten  — if  possible.  Stripped  naked, 
the  sweat  ran  off  me  in  streams,  soaking  through  the  hammock.  Into 
this  the  iron-jawed  insects  swarmed  in  such  masses,  in  spite  of  the  net, 
that  I was  forced  to  abandon  it  to  them  entirely.  For  a time  I tramped 
up  and  down  the  road  in  the  moonlight.  But  every  few  steps  I 
stumbled  half  asleep.  I built  a fire  about  my  hammock  and  covered 
it  with  sand,  but  the  smudge  had  little  effect  on  the  insects  and  made 
the  heat  and  sweat  all  the  more  unendurable,  so  that  I stumbled  back 
and  forth  in  the  roadway  most  of  the  night. 

We  tramped  four  red-hot  hours  to  Piococa,  all  but  falling  on  our 
faces  from  sleepiness,  and  dodging  the  worst  sloughs  only  by  many  a 
struggle  with  the  jungle.  Here,  in  a small  open  green  backed  by  rock- 
faced, wooded  hillocks,  was  the  estancia-house  of  a cruceno  to  whom  I 
had  a letter.  Only  an  Indian  girl,  stupid  and  filthy  beyond  words,  was 
there,  however,  and  we  got  a guinea-hen  and  some  boiled  yuca  at  last 
only  by  infinite  coaxing.  At  least  there  was  plenty  of  rich  grass  for 
the  mule,  and  a clear  running  stream  in  which  I bathed  and  laundered 
and  lay  emerged  most  of  the  afternoon  in  protection  from  the  gnats. 
In  our  hammocks  under  the  trees  the  insects  were  almost  as  bad  as  ever. 
The  only  possible  relief  was  to  walk  swiftly  up  and  down.  Had  I been 
alone,  I should  have  pushed  on  without  a stop  until  I reached  a place 
of  rest,  but  the  German  was  so  worn  out  that  not  even  the  “ pinching  ” 
of  the  mosquitos  could  stir  him  up.  There  was  at  least  a certain  curi- 
osity to  know  how  long  the  human  frame  could  hold  up  under  these 
unbroken  hardships. 


578 


SKIRTING  THE  GRAN  CHACO 


At  dusk  three  youths  rode  up  on  saddled  steers,  the  chief  means  of 
transportation  in  these  parts.  The  saddles  were  not  unlike  our 
“ Texas,”  and  the  single  leather  rein  passed  from  the  ring  in  the  nose 
over  the  forehead  of  the  animal,  between  the  horns.  Steers  cross  deep 
mud  more  easily  than  horses  or  mules,  but  are  much  slower  and  more 
easily  exhausted,  and  the  width  of  their  flanks  makes  long  riding  pain- 
ful to  the  hips.  The  motion  is  mildly  like  that  of  the  camel.  The 
natives  sat  for  hours  all  but  motionless,  smoking  cigarros  de  chala, 
cigarettes  rolled  in  corn-husks.  Between  a few  gnat-bitten  snatches 
of  sleep  I tramped  the  yard,  pausing  now  and  then  to  squat  beside  the 
fire  that  smudged  all  night  before  the  native  hut,  forming  a veritable 
curtain  of  smoke  through  which  the  insects  hesitated  to  pass.  The 
family  inside  swung  in  their  hammocks  all  the  night  through.  What 
secret  means  the  people  of  this  region  have  to  keep  their  hammocks  con- 
stantly moving,  while  to  all  appearances  they  are  sound  asleep,  I 
was  never  able  to  learn.  More  than  once  I watched  them  for  a long 
half-hour  swinging  back  and  forth  with  no  evident  means  of  propul- 
sion, lying  all  but  on  their  backs,  one  bare  leg  hanging  over  the  edge  of 
the  hamaca,  as  if  these  children  of  the  wilderness  had  long  since  solved 
the  problem  of  perpetual  motion  that  civilization  has  so  far  sought  in 
vain. 

In  the  morning  the  tendency  to  fall  down  asleep  in  full  march  re- 
mained. The  road  was  wider  and  the  forest  more  open,  so  that  the  sun 
beat  upon  us  like  an  open  puddling- furnace.  We  paused  to  drink  from 
any  cart-rut  or  swamp,  and  to  wash  from  our  eyes  the  blinding  sweat 
that  quickly  filled  them  again.  A huge  hairy  spider  now  and  then  ran 
by  underfoot.  The  natives  say  they  are  deadly.  We  did  not  halt  to 
investigate.  Beyond  the  breathless  corner  of  the  woods  where  we 
cooked  the  last  of  our  beans  we  met  a welcome  sight, — a woman  with 
a bundle  on  her  head ; not  merely  the  first  traveler  since  passing  the 
soldiers,  but  a sign  that  we  were  approaching  a town.  An  hour  further 
on  we  waded  a small  river,  climbed  a gentle  slope  heavy  in  sand,  and 
found  ourselves  in  a silent  hamlet  of  sandy  streets  and  an  enormous 
grass-grown  plaza  backed  by  a stone  church,  as  out  of  proportion  to 
its  surroundings  as  the  Escorial  in  its  village.  We  had  reached  at  last 
the  famous  old  town  of  Saint  Joseph. 

The  heels  of  my  boots  had  worn  away  until  they  protruded  from  my 
ankles  like  spurs,  and  I had  been  forced  to  chop  them  off  entirely  with 
the  machete.  My  hat  had  been  trampled  by  the  German  and  the  mule 
during  the  thunder-storm  until  it  was  no  longer  recognizable.  Torn, 

579 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


smeared,  and  bewhiskered  with  twelve  days  of  jungle  travel  and  mud- 
hole  wading,  tattooed  from  hair  to  soles  with  insect  arabesques, 
bleached  and  faded  by  sweat  and  the  raging  sun,  we  were  no  fit  sights 
for  a ladies’  club  as  we  hobbled  out  upon  the  broad  plaza.  One  of  the 
huts  facing  it  was  the  home  and  office  of  the  subprefect.  He,  how- 
ever, was  “ out  on  his  farm  ” a few  miles  away,  recuperating  no  doubt 
from  the  rush  and  roar  of  the  city.  “ But  all  strangers  lodge  in  the 
monastery.’’  We  hobbled  in  at  a door  under  the  four-story  stone 
tower  of  that  incongruous  church,  and  found  ourselves  in  a former 
residence  of  the  Jesuits.  The  traveler  asks  permission  of  no  one,  but 
goes  and  takes  possession ; for  the  owners  are  far  away  and  long 
absent.  Now  the  ancient  monastery  is  in  the  last  stages  of  dilapida- 
tion. Under  the  arched  corredores,  backed  by  noisome  ruined  pens 
that  were  once  the  vaulted  cells  of  monks,  were  a score  of  hammock- 
posts.  A half-dozen  soldiers  and  their  females  occupied  some  of  these. 
We  swung  our  hammocks  in  the  long  space  left  and  picketed  the  mule 
out  on  the  grassy  plaza.  Here  and  there  on  the  stone  walls  were 
crude,  life-size  drawings  of  Bolivian  boy-soldiers  shooting  Indians 
clad  in  feather  clouts  and  armed  with  long  bows  and  arrows.  Three 
arched  cells  up  against  the  church  across  the  patio  had  been  roughly 
walled  up  to  serve  as  the  provincial  jail,  with  an  earth  floor  and  a log 
of  wood  as  bed  or  bench,  its  one  window  protected  by  hoop-iron  bars  a 
girl  could  have  pushed  off  with  one  hand.  In  the  back  arches  lived  the 
cura,  a little,  dried-up,  hare-minded  cholo,  with  the  half-dozen  of  his 
children  not  yet  old  enough  to  shift  for  themselves,  and  their  two 
mothers.  We  learned  later  that  he  had  twenty-two  recognized  chil- 
dren, some  of  them  men  of  importance  in  the  department.  Though  he 
went  about  pleading  poverty  and  begging  from  the  Indians,  the  padre 
owned  nearly  half  the  carts  that  ply  the  road  through  San  Jose,  and 
no  small  amount  of  the  surrounding  acreage. 

San  Jose  de  Chiquitos  is  the  capital  of  a province  so  named  because 
the  early  Spaniards  found  the  doors  of  the  native  huts  so  small,  as  a 
protection  against  gnats  and  their  tribal  enemies,  that  they  could 
only  enter  them  by  making  themselves  chiquitos  (tiny)  and  crawling  in 
on  all  fours.  In  1560  Nuflo  de  Chaves,  ascending  the  Paraguay  river, 
founded  here  the  original  Santa  Cruz  de  la  Sierra,  the  street  plan  of 
which  may  still  be  imperfectly  traced  in  the  jungle  a league  away  at 
the  foot  of  a rock-faced  hill.  This  first  settlement  was  later  removed 
to  its  present  site,  but  in  1695  the  Jesuits  established  here,  in  what  is 
to-day  Bolivian  territory,  under  the  name  of  San  Jose,  one  of  their 

580 


A German  of  tropical  Bolivia  and  his  “housekeeper.”  Showing  the  tnosquilero  with 
which  all  beds  or  hammocks  of  this  region  are  covered  as  a protection 
against  the  mosquitos  and  jejctirs 


Santiago  de  Chiquitos,  above  the  gnat -line,  backed  by  its  reddish  cliffs 


SKIRTING  THE  GRAN  CHACO 


ten  “ reductions.”  Not  even  the  ruins  of  Paraguay,  the  republic  most 
associated  with  the  memory  of  the  Loyalists,  give  a better  notion  of  the 
establishments  in  which  the  Indian  tribes  “ converted  ” by  the  good 
Fathers  were  gathered  to  toil  for  the  safety  of  their  souls  and  the 
filling  of  the  coffers  of  the  society  in  Paris.  The  mission  remains 
much  as  it  was  when  the  order  was  expelled  from  Spanish  territory, 
too  isolated  to  be  picked  to  pieces  by  visitors,  its  people  too  apathetic 
to  make  use  of  its  cut-stone  for  their  own  buildings. 

These  “ reductions  ” were  all  alike  in  plan, — a large  central  square 
was  enclosed  by  a wall,  a ditch,  and  a stockade,  as  much  to  keep  the 
“converts”  from  escaping  as  to  protect  them  from  the  wild  Indians 
and  the  mamelucos  of  Brazil  who  came  in  quest  of  slaves.  An  im- 
mense church,  in  the  building  of  which  the  Pedres  made  use  of  their 
subjects  as  freely  as  the  Pharaohs,  stood  high  above  all  else.  The 
enormous  mission  of  San  Jose,  conspicuous  in  its  grandeur  amid  the 
solitude  of  the  jungle  as  are  the  monuments  of  Egypt  in  their  desert 
setting,  was  built  of  brick  and  stone  under  Spanish  artisans,  the  four- 
story  tower  bearing  the  date  1748,  and  a stone  sun-dial  in  the  center  of 
the  patio,  by  which  we  could  still  tell  the  hour,  that  of  1765.  From  the 
summit  of  the  tower  the  town  below  looked  like  an  oasis  in  a desert  of 
dense  green,  stretching  ocean-wide  on  every  hand.  The  huge  bells 
were  still  suspended  by  ropes  of  guembe,  a vine  used  in  place  of  nails 
in  modern  constructions,  and  so  strong  and  durable  that  it  has  held 
these  immense  masses  in  place  more  than  a hundred  years.  The  tolling 
of  church-bells,  striking  even  amid  the  rumble  of  civilization,  was 
solemn  in  the  extreme  above  the  utter  silence  of  the  trackless  selva  and 
savage  tropical  solitudes. 

The  evidence  is  convincing  that  the  first  Jesuits  to  arrive  were  self- 
sacrificing  idealists,  filled  with  a zeal  for  converts  that  made  even 
trickery, — decoy  Indians,  abundance  of  food,  dances  and  festivals  — 
fair  play.  Conversion  was  absurdly  simple.  Catch  an  Indian,  sprinkle 
him  with  holy  water,  and  shut  him  up  within  the  mission  stockade,  and 
his  soul  was  safely  on  the  road  to  heaven.  But  once  these  idealists 
had  gathered  the  Indians  together  and  won  their  confidence,  they  were 
superseded  by  astute,  hard-headed  men  of  keen  business  ability,  less 
interested  in  “ saving  souls  ” than  in  winning  temporal  power  and 
earthly  riches  for  their  society.  The  later  Padres  lived  like  the 
princes  of  medieval  Europe,  surrounded  by  every  luxury  the  forced 
labor  of  the  Indians  could  buy.  With  virtually  a monopoly  in  trade, 
having  neither  wages  nor  taxes  to  pay,  they  were  almost  wholly  free 

58i 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


from  individual  competition.  They  gave  each  Indian  the  education 
they  considered  fitting  to  his  place  in  life,  taught  as  many  trades  as  the 
society  had  need  of,  forbade  intercourse  with  strangers  or  the  learning 
of  the  Spanish  language,  made  early  marriage  compulsory,  often 
mating  couples  offhand,  as  did  the  Incas,  and  ruled  over  their  subjects 
sternly,  requiring  all  to  rise,  eat,  work,  and  sleep  in  unison  at  the  beat- 
ing of  a bell  or  drum;  in  short,  they  treated  the  “ converts  ” like  valu- 
able domestic  animals.  From  the  cradle  to  the  grave  the  Indian  lived 
in  complete  submission  to  the  Padres.  In  church  and  at  work  there 
was  a complete  segregation  of  the  sexes  under  the  old  regime.  But  by 
night  all  were  gathered  together,  often  several  families  under  the  roof 
of  a single  galpon,  with  all  the  degeneration  of  customs  thereby  sug- 
gested. Thanks  to  the  careful  fostering  of  the  race,  there  is  said  to 
have  been  100,000  “ converts  ” in  the  “ reductions  ” at  the  height  of 
Jesuit  power.  San  Jose  is  doubly  notable  historically,  for  it  was  here, 
rumor  has  it,  that  the  Loyalists  were  planning  to  build  the  capital  of  a 
kingdom  of  their  own  when  they  were  overtaken  by  the  decree  banish- 
ing them  from  Spanish  dominions. 

The  last  census  in  Jesuit  days  credited  San  Jose  with  more  than  2000 
inhabitants.  To-day  it  has  barely  a fourth  as  many,  drowsing  through 
life  in  low,  mud  huts  scattered  carelessly  along  the  sand  streets  some 
three  blocks  on  all  sides  of  the  plaza.  Not  a few  of  the  original  con- 
verts of  the  Jesuits,  suddenly  regaining  their  liberty  at  the  expulsion  of 
the  Padres,  “ went  back  to  the  bush,”  which  accounts  for  the  unmis- 
takable signs  of  European  blood  in  more  than  one  naked  savage  laid 
low  by  a traveler’s  rifle.  Even  to-day  such  reversions  to  type  are  not 
unknown ; and  this,  with  the  drain  of  the  rubber  fields  of  the  Beni,  has 
done  most  to  reduce  the  population  to  its  present  low  ebb.  The  in- 
habitants belong  to  the  same  general  family  as  the  several  tribes  of 
wild  Indians  that  attack  travelers  on  the  road  across  Bolivia,  and  which 
are  even  to-day  the  terror  of  San  Jose  itself,  having  more  than  once 
assaulted  the  place  with  fury.  But  in  the  town  this  Indian  blood  is 
commonly  mixed  with  negro  or  white,  and  though  Spanish  js  more 
general,  the  chiquitana  tongue,  a branch  of  the  Guarani  or  Tupy  of 
eastern  South  America,  is  still  spoken. 

The  chiquitano  is  in  features  about  the  antithesis  of  our  inherited 
Greek  idea  of  beauty.  His  head  is  round,  with  little  or  no  back  to  it, 
the  hair  thick,  jet-black,  and  coarse  as  a horse’s  mane,  his  face  wide, 
all  its  features  bulky,  especially  the  nose,  which  recalls  the  negro,  as  do 
also  the  thick,  prominent  lips.  His  eyes  are  black  and  rather  small, 

582 


SKIRTING  THE  GRAN  CHACO 


his  ears  plump  and  prominent,  his  teeth  generally  white  and  strong,  the 
chin  neither  prominent  nor  receding.  In  color  he  is  light-brown,  not 
unlike  the  Hindu  — or  the  tint  of  a tan  shoe  after  a month  of  wear  and 
polish.  His  body  is  heavy,  thick-set,  and  muscular,  though  without 
what  we  call  “ development  ” of  any  particular  set  of  muscles.  This 
thick-setness  is  even  more  noticeable  in  the  women  than  among  the 
men,  the  former  being  more  erect  and  high-chested  from  carrying 
water-jars  and  other  heavy  loads  on  their  heads  from  childhood.  The 
feet  are  large,  with  strong,  well-separated  toes.  Their  clothing  is 
simple  and  excellently  adapted  to  the  tropics,  where  the  looser  the  gar- 
ment the  better  the  health.  The  men  wear  a felt  or  straw  hat  and  thin 
cotton  jacket  and  trousers,  loose-fitting  and  generally  white  in  origin, 
with  a wide  leather  belt  containing  several  pockets  and  frequently 
decorated  with  large  silver  coins.  The  women  never  cover  their  heads 
and  wear  nothing  whatever  except  the  tipoy,  a single  loose  gown,  thin 
and  white  as  a night-dress,  without  sleeves  and  with  the  neck  cut  as  low 
as  is  possible  without  danger  of  losing  the  garment  entirely.  In  these 
they  frequently  march  into  the  stream  behind  the  town  — for  the 
inhabitants  of  this  tropical  region  are  far  more  cleanly  than  those 
of  the  upper  plateau  — rolling  up  the  garment  as  the  water  covers 
them,  until  it  is  folded  on  the  head  in  the  form  of  a turban.  As  they 
arise  from  the  bath,  they  unfold  a clean  gown  so  skillfully  that  the 
sharpest  glance  will  catch  nothing  but  tipoy  and  water.  As  a race  the 
chiquitanos  are  extremely  independent,  and  very  incommunicative  to 
any  than  their  own  people ; like  all  American  aborigines,  they  show 
outwardly  very  little  of  their  thoughts  and  impressions.  Hurrying  is 
utterly  unknown  to  them,  though  at  times  they  work  with  a leisurely 
steadiness.  They  show  few  signs  of  affection,  or  on  the  other  hand 
of  aversion  or  anger,  being,  indeed,  strangely  like  automatons  or  lay- 
figures  in  their  deportment. 

There  is  far  less  religion,  or  at  least  outward  sign  of  it,  in  these 
tropical  towns  than  up  on  the  bleak  Andean  plateau.  Is  it  because  the 
highlands,  drear  and  mysterious,  like  Palestine  or  the  wastes  of  Arabia, 
bring  on  a dread  that  is  not  felt  in  the  tropics,  where  nature  is,  or  at 
least  seems,  more  kindly?  When  a native  dies  he  is  buried  at  once, 
then  his  family  and  friends  start  a “santa  novena,” — nine  days  of 
mourning  in  which  they  gather  together  each  day  to  pray  and  to  drink 
themselves  into  complete  intoxication.  He  who  has  given  occasion  for 
the  festival  is  looked  upon  almost  as  a benefactor.  But  there  is  very 
little  hint  of  mysticism  or  worship  in  these  post-mortem  antics. 

583 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


In  the  “ good  old  days  ” of  Chiquitos,  following  the  expulsion  of 
the  Jesuits,  the  cacique  brought  each  traveler  a maid  for  his  service. 
To-day  it  is  the  mothers  or  sisters  who  offer  the  guest  of  the  monas- 
tery a companion  during  his  stay.  Not  even  Santa  Cruz  can  compare 
with  the  former  “ reduction  ” in  the  complacency  of  its  customs. 
The  Indians  of  all  this  region,  it  seems,  were  as  free  and  natural  in 
their  sexual  relations  as  the  ancient  Greeks  or  several  other  pre-Chris- 
tian nations,  seeing  no  harm  in  the  indulgence  of  a natural  appetite ; 
and  while  the  Jesuit  fathers  had  a decided  influence  in  other  matters, 
they  had  little  in  this  respect.  Indeed,  there  is  evidence  that  the 
Padres  set  an  example  in  this  regard  quite  at  variance  with  their 
preaching. 

In  San  Jose  I discovered  that  Konanz  could  not  speak  his  mother 
tongue.  We  had  called  on  the  manager  of  one  of  the  two  “ Belgian  " 
houses  for  information  in  the  matter  of  homestead  colonists  in  the 
region,  and  at  every  few  words  my  companion  spilled  over  into  his 
home-made  “ English.”  A dozen  times  I had  to  remind  him  that  the 
manager  did  not  understand  that  tongue.  Here  was  exactly  the  type 
of  immigrant  Bolivia  sadly  needs,  a man  prepared  to  spend  his  life 
in  the  country,  capable  of  sustained  toil,  and  likely  to  leave  strong  chil- 
dren behind  him.  Yet  already  the  politicians  of  La  Paz  had  given  three 
large  syndicates  title,  almost  for  nothing,  to  all  the  fertile  portions  of 
this  immense  territory,  and  these  held  it  shut  against  settlers  who  did 
not  accept  their  terms,  which,  as  I heard  them  outlined  to  Konanz,  vir- 
tually made  them  vassals  to  the  companies.  Instead  of  assisting  a 
fellow-countryman  far  off  here  in  the  wilderness,  the  manager  used 
all  his  suave  persuasiveness  to  get  my  companion’s  name  signed  to  a 
contract  of  benefit  only  to  his  own  “ Belgian  ” house,  and  would  in  all 
probability  have  succeeded  had  I not  been  there  with  counteracting 
advice  in  English. 

These  houses  are  more  jesuitical  than  their  predecessors  in  exploit- 
ing the  natives  — “ and  their  own  employees,”  a former  one  has  added, 
on  reading  my  notes.  The  bribery  of  government  officials  to  obtain 
immense  concessions  of  land  which  they  make  no  effort  to  develop  is 
a mere  detail  of  their  business  methods.  They  sell  at  from  200  to  800 
percent  increase  over  buying  prices  even  of  Puerto  Suarez.  A Ger- 
man imitation  of  a $12  American  plow  was  held  at  100  bolivianos 
($40)  ; a roll  of  barbed  wire  at  40  Bis.;  ordinary  shoes,  as  much;  a 
four-gallon  can  of  kerosene,  20  Bis.  Not  merely  do  the  Germans 
take  advantage  of  their  virtual  monopoly  to  buy  of  the  natives  at  a 

584 


SKIRTING  THE  GRAN  CHACO 


fifth  of  the  just  value,  and  sell  again  at  five  times  that;  but  even  their 
dealings  with  each  other  are  unprincipled.  One  episode  will  stand  as 
typical.  A bank  failed  in  La  Paz.  The  government,  seeing  all  the 
Germans  as  brothers,  notified  one  of  the  firms  that  the  bills  issued  by 
that  bank  had  become  worthless,  expecting  one  house  to  warn  the 
other.  Instead,  the  manager  gathered  together  all  the  worthless 
billetcs  in  his  possession  and  sent  them  one  at  a time  by  natives  to  the 
rival  house,  with  orders  to  make  some  small  purchase  and  bring  back 
the  change  in  good  money. 

Barter  is  the  chief  form  of  commerce  in  all  this  region.  We 
chanced  to  be  chattering  with  the  manager  of  a “ Belgian  ” house  in 
San  Jose,  when  the  wobbly-minded  old  cura  came  in  with  a long 
document  written  on  the  firm’s  stationery.  It  proved  to  be  the  certifi- 
cate of  baptism  of  a daughter  recently  born  to  the  manager,  whose 
“ housekeeper  ” had  insisted  on  this  formality.  After  much  chaffering 
the  priest  was  at  last  beaten  down  to  three  bolivianos  for  his  divine 
services. 

“ Caramba ! ” cried  the  German,  in  pretended  anger.  “If  you’re 
going  to  mulct  me  this  way  every  time,  I ’ll  discharge  my  housekeeper 
and  bring  you  no  more  to  baptise.  And  what  are  you  going  to  take 
for  those  three  billetes  ? ” he  went  on. 

The  priest  ran  his  dull  eyes  around  the  shelves,  packed  with  all  man- 
ner of  cheap  imports,  until  they  fell  upon  a long  array  of  bottles.  Then 
he  glanced  back  at  the  manager,  who  was  at  that  moment  offering  him 
a cigarette. 

“ Pues,  senor,”  mumbled  the  old  ecclesiastic,  as  he  accepted  a light, 
“ I wonder  if  you  have  a real  good  wine,  proper  to  say  mass  with.” 

“ Como  no ! ” cried  the  German,  in  his  throaty  but  self-confident 
Spanish.  “ There  is  a splendid  wine,  just  the  thing  for  mass,  worth 
five  bolivianos  even  in  Europe,  but  ”■ — - with  a wink  at  Ivonanz  and 
myself, — “ to  you,  as  my  compadre  as  well  as  priest,  I ’ll  make  it 
three.” 

The  cura  accepted  the  exchange  and  wandered  back  to  the  monas- 
tery with  the  bottle  under  his  arm.  To  judge  from  the  condition  he 
was  in  when  we  returned  to  our  lodging,  he  said  at  least  a half-dozen 
masses  that  very  evening. 

We  were  lolling  luxuriously  in  our  hammocks  one  morning,  when  a 
man  in  a sun-faded  straw  hat,  cotton  jacket  and  trousers,  a long  lack 
of  shave,  and  feet  that  had  never  known  the  restraint  of  shoes,  wan- 
dered into  the  compound  and  asked  Konanz  if  he  spoke  English.  The 

585 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


latter,  full  of  the  self-confidence  of  his  race,  had  already  misinformed 
the  newcomer  in  the  affirmative  when  I drew  his  attention.  There 
was  not  a hair  of  the  man’s  head  that  did  not  cry  native,  yet  he  spoke 
my  own  tongue  rapidly,  with  only  the  intangible  hint  of  a foreign 
accent. 

“ Where  did  you  learn  English  ? ” I yawned. 

“ Why,  I am  an  American ! ” came  the  startling  answer.  “ My 
name  is  Jim  Powell.  We  was  born  in  Texas,”  he  went  on  without 
urging.  “ I don’t  remember  what  place,  an’  when  I was  small  paw 
an’  maw  they  went  away  with  five  of  us  children  because  North 
America  was  fixin’  to  fight.  I don’t  know  what  country  they  was 
aimin’  to  fight,  but  paw  he  did  n’t  want  to,  ’n’  so  we  sailed  across  the 
ocean  to  Bolivia.  The  other  seven  children  was  born  in  Chiquitos, 
an’  finally  paw  he  up  an’  died  last  year.  Maw  she ’s  livin’  out  to  San 
Antonio,  an’  the  rest  is  mostly  scattered  around.  One  of  the  girl ’s 
married  to  a judge  in  Santa  Cruz  an’  the  others  is  on  the  rocks.” 

His  language  was  that  of  the  “ white  trash  ” of  our  southern  states, 
but  was  academic  compared  to  the  illiterate  brogue  of  his  brother, 
“ Hughtie,”  who  arrived  soon  after  him.  The  latter  had  come  to 
Bolivia  so  young  that  Spanish  and  chiquitana  were  his  native  tongues. 
He  was  a bullock-driver  for  a native  owning  several  carts,  and  had 
recently  been  released  from  eight  months  in  the  prison  of  Santa  Cruz, 
at  the  cost  of  all  he  owned, — “ Jes’  becoze  I killed  a feller  thet  was 
monkeyin’  with  one  o’  my  women.”  Accustomed  as  we  are  to  trans- 
planted foreigners  of  all  nationalities  in  our  own  country,  it  was  a dis- 
tinct shock  to  come  upon  a Bolivianized  American.  Such  atavism 
brought  the  reflection  that  civilization  is  at  best  a weak  and  artificial 
thing. 

So  completely  native  had  the  pair  become  that  the  natives  themselves 
never  thought  of  them  as  foreigners.  “ Hughtie  ” was  soon  to  leave 
for  the  Paraguay  river  with  a train  of  carts,  and  invited  us  to  go 
along,  pretending,  native  fashion,  that  he  was  in  charge  of  the  expe- 
dition, of  which,  in  reality,  he  was  a mere  peon.  When  the  time  set 
came,  he  wandered  into  the  monastery  to  say  that  we  should  start  the 
following  night — “if  thet  there  mozo  finds  thet  there  bull  that  run 
away;”  or  if  not,  then  the  next  night.  “ Hughtie”  was  a true  Boli- 
vian in  putting  his  trust  chiefly  in  to-morrow. 

The  shadow  across  the  Jesuit  sun-dial  was  exactly  horizontal  when, 
refreshed  by  four  long  gnatless  days  and  nights  in  San  Jose,  we  pushed 
on  along  a road  that  stretched  like  a tunnel  through  the  greenery. 

586 


SKIRTING  THE  GRAN  CHACO 


Konanz  had  decided  to  travel  a few  days  further  eastward.  The  road 
was  of  sand  that  drunk  up  the  rains  quickly,  but  thirst  was  cor- 
respondingly worse.  Jejenes  were  fewer,  though  swarms  of  swamp 
flies  added  their  annoyance.  The  danger  of  savages  was  less  than  in 
the  Monte  Grande ; on  the  other  hand  “ tigers,”  as  the  natives  call  the 
jaguar,  were  said  to  be  plentiful.  The  mosquitero  protected  us  from 
these,  however,  were  any  protection  needed,  even  when  sleeping  in  the 
wilderness ; for  the  animal  is  never  known  to  attack  unless  it  can  see 
the  head  of  its  victim.  We  were  soon  splashing  again  waist-deep 
through  swamps,  and  often  wading  as  laboriously  through  deep  sand 
between  them.  Beyond  the  palm-thatched  hamlet  of  Dolores,  where 
we  saw  our  first  wild  ostriches,  the  country  grew  more  open,  with 
scrub  trees,  the  way  strewn  with  appetizing  petas,  or  land  turtles,  the 
hollow  charred  shells  of  which  marked  more  than  one  camping-grounds 
of  former  travelers.  We  should  have  reached  the  ranch  of  an  Amer- 
ican off  the  main  trail  on  the  second  day,  had  not  the  German  given 
out  at  Las  Taperas,  a cluster  of  three  huts  at  the  forking  of  the  ways. 
We  camped  under  a heavily  loaded  lemon  tree,  beside  a swampy  lake 
backed  far  off  by  a blue  range  of  low  hills.  From  this  flowed  a 
clear  little  stream  in  which  I lay  most  of  the  afternoon  with  only  my 
nose  and  hands  out  of  water  and  finished  the  volume  of  Nietzsche,  to 
the  disgust  of  the  German,  who  did  not  believe  in  “ vashing  all  over 
der  body.” 

In  the  morning  we  struck  off  by  the  faint  trail  around  the  lake. 
The  day  was  brilliant,  and  the  going  pleasant  enough  to  be  enjoyed 
amid  my  own  meditations.  I let  the  German  and  his  animal  draw  on 
ahead,  until  they  were  lost  to  view  in  the  placid  chiquitano  landscape. 
At  Las  Taperas  we  had  bought  for  twenty  cents  a whole  bunch  of  the 
fat  little  “ silky  ” bananas  of  the  region,  and  hung  them  on  the  pack. 
As  I plodded  on  through  a low  scrub  forest  and  a tough  and  wiry 
grass,  knee-high,  hunger  gradually  intruded  upon  my  dreams,  and 
almost  at  the  instant  it  grew  tangible  a fresh  banana  appeared  in  the 
trail  before  me.  After  that  they  were  as  nicely  proportioned  to 
my  requirements  as  manna  to  the  Israelites  in  a not  wholly  dissimilar 
wilderness.  But  what  had  become  of  Konanz?  Hour  after  hour 
passed  without  a sign  of  him.  He  was  not  accustomed  to  lead  the  way 
for  so  prolonged  a period.  I pushed  on  more  rapidly,  not  entirely  free 
from  visions  of  savages  falling  upon  him.  The  sun  stood  high  over- 
head, casting  down  its  rays  like  the  contents  of  an  overturned  melting- 
pot,  when  I caught  sight  of  him  at  last  some  distance  beyond.  He  lay 

587 


/ 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 

panting  and  dripping  in  the  scant  shade  of  a bush,  while  the  mule  stood 
tied  to  another,  eyeing  him  suspiciously.  It  was  a full  minute  before 
he  gathered  breath  to  relieve  my  anxiety. 

“ Oh,  you mool!  ” he  gasped,  shaking  his  fist  at  the  ani- 

mal so  savagely  that  it  all  but  tore  itself  loose,  “ Rhight  avay  now  I 

shoot  you  der  head  through,  you ” 

Expurgated  of  its  adjectives,  the  story,  during  which  I was  forced  to 
retain  a deep  solemnity,  was  that  the  mule, — after  having  been  beaten 
and  kicked  during  all  the  loading  that  morning  — had  suddenly  taken 
fright  when  the  German  started  up  from  a log  on  which  he  had  rested 
for  a moment,  and  had  run  away.  For  hours  the  angry  Teuton  had 
pursued  the  animal,  trailing  her  by  the  clue  of  bananas  she  had  dropped 
at  intervals  for  my  benefit,  until,  no  doubt  frightened  to  find  herself 
*nlone  in  the  wilderness,  “ she  come  valking  pack  against  me.  Chust 
like  a vomans,  py  Gott ! Rhunned  avay  un’  den  gum  scneaking  pack, 
pegause  she  haf  to  haf  der  home  un’  der  master!  ” 

Beyond  the  rancho  of  Pablo  Rojo  the  pampa  gave  place  to  monte, 
dense  tangled  growth  not  tall  enough  to  shade  us  from  the  blazing 
afternoon  sun,  yet  high  enough  to  cut  us  off  in  the  trough-like  trail 
from  every  breath  of  breeze,  until  our  tongues  and  throats  went 
parched  and  charqui-dry,  and  the  red-hot  sand  sifted  in  through  the 
holes  in  my  shoes  and  burned  my  toes.  Konanz  could  only  be  coaxed 
along  a mile  at  a time,  between  which  he  lay  like  a log  in  any  patch 
of  shade  to  be  found.  Luckily,  the  sun  was  still  above  the  horizon 
when  the  endless  jungle  was  enlivened  by  the  welcome  sight  of  a 
thatched  house  framed  in  corn  and  banana  fields  and  backed  by  slight 
wooded  ridges.  About  the  gate,  toward  which  we  tore  our  way 
through  jungle  grass  shoulder-high,  were  toiling  three  men  in  long- 
uncut  hair  and  beards,  barefoot  in  their  leather  ajotas,  and  wearing 
the  customary  chiquitano  garb  of  two  thin  and  faded  garments  topped 
by  sunfaded  hats  of  local  weave. 

To  my  astonishment,  all  three  turned  out  to  be  Americans.  Henry 
Halsey,  whose  welcome  was  as  genuine  as  any  I received  in  South 
America,  though  less  expressed  in  words  than  deeds,  was  owner  of 
this  wilderness  estate ; his  employees  were  “ Chris  ” and  George 
Powell,  younger  brothers  of  the  pair  we  had  met  in  San  Jose.  Halsey 
was  a Virginian  whose  career  had  ranged  from  teaching  country 
school  to  mining  in  Zaruma  and  Cerro  de  Pasco.  The  altitude 
bothered  him  and  he  had  drifted  to  Paraguay,  only  to  find  “ too  much 
government  ” and  to  push  on  into  this  wilderness  as  far  from  the 

588 


SKIRTING  THE  GRAN  CHACO 


world  as  a man  can  easily  get.  Not  because  the  government  of 
Bolivia  is  an  improvement  on  that  of  Paraguay,  but  because  its  tenta- 
cles rarely  reach  so  far  into  the  wilds,  he  had  prospered.  He  had  all 
but  come  to  grief  at  the  outset,  however.  Barely  had  he  chosen  a 
knoll  on  which  to  build  his  hut,  when  he  was  bitten  by  a small  viper 
that  swelled  one  leg  to  thrice  its  natural  size  and  left  him  half  para- 
lyzed. For  four  days  he  could  not  move  from  where  he  lay,  and  only 
by  good  fortune  had  he  water  within  reach,  for  no  other  human  being 
appeared  until  long  after  his  recovery.  Now,  with  a native  wife  and 
child,  as  well  as  his  peons,  he  was  in  no  danger  of  repeating  the  expe- 
rience. With  American  energy  he  had  cleared  of  the  primeval,  tropical 
forest  a large  space  that  now  waved  with  corn-fields  and  sugar-cane, 
with  bananas  and  productive  ground-vines,  and  had  built  a large  house 
in  the  native  style  and  a distillery  to  turn  his  sugar-cane  into  value, 
while  his  cattle  spread  over  a broad  region  in  which  he  had  no  neighbor 
to  dispute  his  sway.  His  chief  problem  was  to  get  peons ; for  as  often 
as  a native  was  named  subprefect  of  the  district,  he  rounded  up  all 
the  laborers  for  many  miles  around  and  forced  them  to  work  on  his 
own  estate.  Thus  Halsey  was  reduced  to  the  intermittent  assistance 
of  “ Chris  ” and  George.  These  Bolivian-born  sons  of  the  Texan 
who  did  n’t  “ aim  ” to  fight  were  as  truly  peons  as  the  lowest  of  the 
natives.  They  were  subject  to  the  same  “ slavery  ” that  prevails  in 
all  the  region,  hiring  themselves  out  for  an  advance  and  getting  ever 
more  deeply  into  debt  to  their  employer.  “ Chris  ” was  just  then 
“ working  out  ” a rifle,  and  his  brother  a saddle-steer.  They  had  all  the 
diffidence  of  the  native  peon,  the  same  point  of  view,  the  same  loose 
habits,  spoke  “ English  ” only  when  forced  to,  lamely  and  without  self- 
confidence,  ending  every  sentence  with  an  appealing,  “ Ain’t  thet  right, 
maw  ? ” to  their  mother.  The  latter  was  strikingly  typical  of  the 
erosion  of  customs,  a “ poor  white  ” of  our  south  grafted  upon  the  life 
of  tropical  Bolivia.  Completely  illiterate,  barefoot,  bedraggled  as  any 
native  woman,  whom  she  went  one  better  by  incessantly  chewing 
tobacco,  she  had  wholly  succumbed  to  her  environment,  and  spoke 
fluently  one  of  the  most  atrocious  imitations  of  Spanish  it  has  ever 
been  my  fortune  to  hear  in  a long  experience  with  all  grades  of  that 
tongue. 

Here  we  made  up  royally  for  all  the  hungry  days  behind  us.  The 
products  of  Halsey’s  exotic  industry  ranged  all  the  way  from  fowls  to 
milk  — huge  bowls  of  real,  honest-to-goodness  milk,  unboiled,  un- 
spoiled in  any  Latin-American  way  — lacking  only  bread,  which  could 

589 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


not  be  had  in  these  wilds  at  a dollar  a nibble.  Its  role  was  filled  by 
cold  boiled  squash,  or  plantains  fried  in  lard.  The  craving  for  sweets  I 
found  was  no  personal  weakness.  Halsey  ate  huge  quantities  of 
sugar  — which  he  refined  by  the  primitive  method  of  covering  it  with 
a layer  of  mud  — sprinkling  it  on  every  possible  dish  and  often  munch- 
ing it  like  candy.  The  longing  for  fats  or  grease,  commonly  supposed 
to  be  chiefly  confined  to  the  arctic  regions,  was  also  extraordinary  in 
this  climate.  So  great  was  the  demand  for  lard  that  it  sold  at  50  cents 
a pound ; the  axle-grease  supplied  by  the  owners  of  bullock-carts  was 
mixed  with  soap  to  prevent  the  peon  drivers  from  eating  it.  Among 
the  children  of  the  region  dirt-eating,  due  to  some  morbid  condition  of 
the  stomach,  is  almost  universal,  frequently  resulting  in  death  unless 
the  vigilance  of  parents  is  constant.  The  majority  are  chalky  white, 
weak  and  sickly,  with  enormous,  protruding  bellies.  One  of  Halsey’s 
sources  of  income  was  the  carting  of  salt  from  the  salinas,  shal- 
low lakes  some  days  to  the  south,  around  the  shores  of  which  it  gathers 
in  large  quantities,  to  the  neighboring  hamlet  of  San  Juan,  where  it 
sold  at  25  bolivianos  a hundred-weight.  The  region  was  well  stocked 
with  deer;  wild  cattle  belonged  to  whoever  shot  them;  jaguars  were 
not  hard  to  find  and  antas  were  so  numerous  that  he  shot  at  least  one 
a week  to  feed  his  hogs.  This  stout,  bulky  animal,  largest  of  the  South 
American  fauna,  known  to  us  as  the  tapir,  lives  in  the  dense  thickets 
near  streams  or  water-holes,  in  which  it  bathes  by  moonlight  or  in  the 
gray  of  dawn.  The  experienced  hunter  has  little  difficulty  in  waylay- 
ing the  anta,  since  it  always  follows  the  same  path  to  and  from  the 
water.  The  Bolivian  variety  is  about  the  size  of  a yearling  calf,  with 
short  legs  and  a long,  flexible,  porcine  snout.  Its  skin,  excellent  for 
the  making  of  harness,  is  so  tough  that  it  dashes  with  impunity  through 
the  densest  spiny  thickets,  often  tearing  from  its  back  by  this  means  its 
chief  enemy,  the  jaguar.  Caught  young,  the  anta  becomes  as  tame  as 
a puppy,  following  its  master  with  marked  devotion. 

Four  days  I swung  my  hammock  under  a great  tree  before  Halsey’s 
door,  reading  belated  magazines  of  the  light-weight  order,  the  neurotic 
artificiality  of  which  seemed  particularly  ridiculous  against  this  back- 
ground of  primitive  nature,  as  the  complexity  of  life  in  great  cities 
stood  out  by  contrast  to  the  simple  ways  of  the  region.  Lounging  in 
the  tropical  shade  it  was  easy  to  understand  why  men  so  often  settle 
down  in  the  tropics  and  let  the  world  drift  on  without  them,  easy  to 
lose  the  feeling  that  life  is  short  and  fleeting,  that  one  will  be  a long 
time  dead,  and  must  grasp  existence  as  it  passes.  The  day  after  our 

590 


SKIRTING  THE  GRAN  CHACO 


arrival  Konanz  had  fallen  victim  to  chills  and  fever.  My  regret  was 
tempered  by  the  memory  of  many  a vain  struggle  to  get  him  to  take  a 
daily  dose  of  quinine.  When  he  recovered,  which  did  not  promise  to 
be  soon,  he  planned  to  explore  the  region  round  about  for  a spot  on 
which  to  settle.  I took  leave  of  my  fellow-men  on  one  of  the  last 
mornings  of  January  and  struck  off  alone. 

That  day’s  experience  emphasized  the  difference  between  trackless 
jungle  and  even  the  poorest  of  roads.  Some  twelve  miles  separated 
Halsey’s  estate  from  the  traveled  trail.  The  faint  path  through  wiry 
grasses  and  low  brush,  which  he  had  pointed  out  to  me,  died  out  even 
sooner  than  I had  feared.  I pushed  on  in  the  direction  I knew  I must 
go, — south  and  a shade  east.  A wooded  bluff  standing  above  the 
jungle  landscape,  like  the  Irish  coast  from  the  sea,  gave  an  objective 
point.  It  was  on  the  summit  of  this  that  “ Thompson  ” and  his  fellow- 
assassin  had  planted  in  vain  their  ill-gotten  gold;  in  just  such  jungle 
as  that  about  me  they  had  wandered  starved  and  choking  for  days ; 
somewhere  in  this  sea  of  vegetation  lay  the  sun-bleached  and  vulture- 
picked  bones  of  the  more  fortunate  of  the  pair. 

To  keep  a due  course  in  the  trackless  wilderness  is  not  so  easy  as  to 
set  it.  I was  soon  among  heavier  undergrowth  that  cut  down  my 
progress  like  a head  wind  that  of  a “wind-jammer,”  then  in  head- 
high  jungle  that  made  every  step  a struggle,  then  in  full  forest  with  the 
densest  undergrowth  snatching,  clinging,  tearing  at  me  for  all  the 
world  like  living  beings  determined  to  stop  my  advance  at  any  cost. 
Vines  enwrapped  me,  head,  chest,  waist,  and  feet,  at  every  step. 
Thorns  and  brambles  gashed  and  tore  my  sweat-rotted  clothing,  leaves 
of  wild  pineapple  laid  bare  my  bleeding  knees,  the  jungle  reached  forth 
and  snatched  a sleeve  from  my  shirt,  slashed  my  hands,  broke  my  boot- 
laces, poured  blinding  sweat  into  my  eyes,  and  treacherously  tripped 
me  up,  so  that  I smashed  headlong  into  masses  of  vegetation  where 
who  knew  what  might  be  sleeping  or  lurking.  The  scent  of  wild  ani- 
mals was  pungent ; now  and  then  I fell  into  their  recent  lairs  or  signs 
of  their  passing.  Every  plunge  left  me  so  breathless  from  the  in- 
cessant struggle  that  I was  several  minutes  gathering  strength  to  crawl 
to  my  feet  and  tear  my  way  onward. 

All  day  I fought  nature  hand  to  hand,  with  the  growing  conviction 
that  I should  still  be  struggling  when  night  came  upon  me.  The  sun 
beat  pitilessly  down  into  the  breathless  tangle.  Once,  when  thirst 
seemed  no  longer  endurable,  I had  broken  out  upon  a small  swamp  and 
thrown  myself  face-down  to  drink  it  half  dry.  From  it  radiated  the 

591 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


paths  of  wild  animals,  and  every  inch  of  the  wet  sand  was  marked 
with  their  footprints,  as  fresh  as  if  they  had  that  moment  passed.  I 
recognized  those  of  the  deer,  the  anta,  the  cat-clawed  jaguar;  and 
those  of  at  least  a score  of  smaller  species  were  plainly  visible.  Be- 
yond the  waist-deep  swamp  the  waterless  jungle  was  even  thicker. 
The  blue  headland  of  Ypias  had  long  since  been  lost  to  view,  and  I 
found  that  I was  indeed  going  round  in  a circle,  like  the  heroes  of  fic- 
tion, until  I drew  out  my  cortipass  and  insisted  that  nature  let  me 
through  the  way  it  indicated.  Hunger  was  completely  routed  by  a 
thirst  like  a raging  furnace  within  me.  Frequently  I brought  up 
against  thorn-bristling  thickets  so  dense  that  further  progress  seemed 
impossible,  and  must  tear  my  way  back  and  forth,  as  along  some 
fortress  wall,  seeking  a weak  spot  in  the  impregnable  density. 

Then  all  at  once,  toward  sunset,  when  I had  concluded  I was  hope- 
lessly lost,  I fell  suddenly  out  of  the  jungle  into  a sandy  road,  fell  in- 
deed on  hands  and  knees,  for  the  way  was  worn  several  feet  deep  into 
the  soft  soil.  An  hour  along  it  brought  me  to  the  pascana  of  Ypias, 
uninhabited,  yet  like  all  these  rare  natural  clearings  on  the  trans- 
Bolivian  route,  so  important  as  to  have  its  name  solemnly  engraved  on 
the  map  of  the  republic.  This  was  the  scene  of  what  “ Thompson  ” 
had  called  “ our  stunt.”  In  a bit  of  space  scolloped  out  of  the  jungle 
were  the  six  weather-blackened  wooden  crosses  of  the  victims,  the 
largest  crudely  carved  with  the  names  of  all,  that  of  the  German  con- 
federate with  its  cross-piece  at  a sharp  angle,  the  natives  of  the  region 
apparently  resenting  his  claim  to  full  Christian  burial.  Beyond  the 
clear  little  stream  that  makes  Ypias  a favorite  camping-ground,  four 
ox-carts  were  preparing  for  the  customary  night  journey  after  a day 
of  rest  and  grazing.  One  of  the  barefoot  drivers  under  command  of 
a cholo  astride  a saddle-steer  proved  to  be  “ Hughtie  ” Powell.  I 
climbed  into  his  wagon  and  stretched  out  on  the  great  balls  of  rubber 
from  the  Beni  with  which  it  was  loaded. 

Each  cart  was  drawn  by  twenty  oxen,  gaunt,  reddish,  long-horned 
animals  that  seemed  Patience  done  in  flesh  and  bone.  Their  pace 
averaged  perhaps  two  miles  an  hour.  Now  and  then  “ Hughtie,” 
like  the  other  drivers,  sprang  noiselessly  into  the  sand  and,  racing 
ahead,  lashed  each  yoke  in  turn,  with  insulting  words  of  encourgage- 
ment,  and  the  entire  team  crowded  into  one  of  the  close-set  jungle 
walls  until  the  massive  two-wheeled  cart  was  dragged  over  small  trees 
and  head-high  bushes  at  a slight  acceleration  of  pace.  A dozen 
strange  cries  were  used  in  urging  the  phlegmatic  animals  forward. 

592 


The  tipoy , a single  loose  gown,  constitutes  the  entire  garb  A girl  of  Santiago  de  Chiquitos  selling  a chicken  to  the  cook 

of  most  of  the  native  women  of  tropical  Bolivia  ' 1°3  americanos 


SKIRTING  THE  GRAN  CHACO 


When  a halt  was  ordered,  the  drivers  sprang  to  the  ground  and  ran 
alongside  them,  voicing  a long,  soothing  wail  of  peculiarly  mournful 
timbre  that  often  lasted  a full  minute : 

“ So-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o.” 

Once,  in  the  thick  black  night,  the  train  halted  to  boil  rice  and  make 
“ tea  ” of  a willow-like  jungle  leaf,  then  dragged  drowsily  on.  At 
daylight  we  broke  out  into  the  pascana  of  Motococito,  where  the  ani- 
mals were  turned  loose  to  graze  for  the  day,  each  pair  still  yoked  to- 
gether by  a beam  that  was  almost  a log,  fastened  across  the  front  of 
their  horns  with  rawhide  thongs,  while  the  peons  swung  their  ham- 
mocks under  an  ancient  thatched  roof  on  poles.  We  had  made  four 
leagues,  or  a scant  twelve  miles,  during  the  night. 

I made  my  way  to  the  home  of  “ Don  Cupertino  ” nearby,  for  no 
traveler  across  Bolivia  misses  the  opportunity  of  at  least  one  meal 
with  this  best-hearted  of  Bolivians.  Outwardly  ugly,  he  was  a man  of 
fascinating  personality,  before  whom  one  could  sit  for  hours  listening 
to  well-told  anecdotes,  frequently  emphasized  in  his  excitement  by  the 
snapping  of  his  long  forefinger,  and  marveling  at  the  grasp  of  mind  of 
a man  who  has  never  emerged  from  this  inland  wilderness.  So  great 
was  his  magnetism  that  he  had  imposed  on  all  those  about  him  a 
degree  of  human  kindness  and  common  decency  rare  in  the  region. 
The  education  of  this  corner  of  the  republic,  wholly  neglected  by  the 
government,  he  had  taken  upon  himself ; had  turned  one  of  his  thatched 
buildings  into  a school  for  the  children  of  whatever  cast  roundabout, 
and  drafted  as  school-master  a Spanish  shoemaker  who  had  drifted 
in  upon  him.  Motococito  is  frequently  favored  with  attacks  by  the 
wild  Indians,  and  not  the  least  dramatic  of  “ Don  Cupertino’s  ” 
stories  was  that  of  the  routing  of  a band  of  “ los  barbaros  ” the  night 
before. 

The  pace  of  the  ox-carts  was  so  slow  that  I pushed  on  alone.  The 
sky  was  incessantly  growling  off  to  the  southwest,  banks  of  jet-black 
clouds  frequently  wiped  out  the  brilliant  sun,  and  many  a roaring 
tropical  deluge  set  me  slipping  and  sliding  at  every  step.  Swamps  of 
varying  length  and  depth  continued  monotonously  to  intrude,  until  I 
became  amphibious,  with  water  almost  my  natural  element. 

Where  the  road  forked  one  afternoon  I took  the  fainter,  left-hand 
trail  for  a side-trip  to  the  town  of  Santiago  de  Chiquitos.  The  rumor 
was  persistent  that  “ americanos  ” lived  there ; moreover,  it  was  said  to 
be  situated  on  a ridge  unknown  to  insects.  The  heights  to  be  sur- 
mounted were  not  piled  into  the  sky  ahead,  as  in  the  Andes.  I knew 

593 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


I was  rising  only  by  the  changing  character  of  soil  and  woods,  the 
former  increasing  in  rocky  sandstone  formations,  the  latter  more  open, 
with  diminishing  undergrowth.  After  the  first  few  miles  up,  the 
forest  opened  out  now  and  then  on  little  grassy  pampas,  with  V-shaped 
gaps  in  the  wooded  hills  through  which  one  could  look  back  upon  tropi- 
cal Bolivia  spreading  away  sea-flat,  humid  blue  to  infinity  in  every 
direction,  with  a vast  sense  of  relief  after  weeks  of  never  seeing  the 
woods  for  the  trees  that  had  shut  me  in. 

The  trail  split  at  last  into  several  branches.  The  one  I took  at  ran- 
dom led  me  to  a thatched  hut,  then  suddenly  broke  out  upon  the  grassy 
plaza  of  a great,  or  a tiny  town,  according  to  the  point  of  view  and  the 
immediate  previous  experience.  A native  lolling  in  a hammock  an- 
swered my  question  with  a “ si,  hay  ” in  the  impersonal  monotone 
common  to  the  tropics,  languidly  nodding  toward  one  of  the  huts 
facing  the  plaza.  Jungle-worn  and  all  but  shoeless,  my  reddened 
knees  protruding  through  the  remnant  of  my  breeches,  my  shirt  lack- 
ing a sleeve  and  otherwise  mutilated  beyond  recognition,  unkempt  and 
sun-scorched,  showing  many  a patch  of  my  insect-arabesqued  hide,  my 
face  bristling  with  four  razorless  weeks,  unquestionably  the  most  dis- 
reputable sight  in  all  that  disreputable  region,  a hunger  like  the  Old  Man 
of  the  Sea  riding  my  shoulders,  I strode  across  to  the  building  indicated 
and  paused  in  the  doorway.  Inside,  seated  about  a snow-white  table, 
backed  by  a butler  of  African  dignity,  sat  five  “ gringos  ” in  speckless 
white,  dipping  their  soup  noiselessly  and  without  haste  with  a calm 
backward  motion. 

Santiago  was  the  headquarters  and  place  of  recuperation  of  the  em- 
ployees of  the  Farquhar  Syndicate,  engaged  in  surveying  the  1500 
square  leagues  of  territory  recently  conceded  the  company  at  a nominal 
price.  There  I slept  in  the  first  bed  since  Cochabamba.  The  chickens 
that  died  for  us  were  countless,  the  inevitable  phonograph  was  in  full 
evidence,  there  were  lamps  to  read  by  even  at  night,  and  books  to 
read  by  them.  When  the  sun  touched  the  jungle  sea  to  the  west  “ los 
americanos  ” strolled  homeward  from  the  office,  pausing  to  play  ball 
until  dark,  with  real  gloves,  but  picking  green  oranges  from  the  plaza 
trees  as  often  as  they  needed  a new  “ ball.”  Great  bands  of  deep- 
green  parrakeets  flew  by  high  overhead,  screaming  and  gossiping 
deafeningly,  but  with  no  suggestion  of  stopping  in  a place  so  high  and 
cold.  From  this  “ mountain  ” top  the  sunsets  across  the  humid-blue, 
flat  jungle  were  indescribable,  particularly  after  a rainy  day.  The 
enormous  conflagrations  blazed  for  a brief  time  across  all  the  western 

594 


SKIRTING  THE  GRAN  CHACO 


world,  faded  to  red,  to  pink,  then  into  the  steel-gray  of  a tropical  even- 
ing; the  distant  hills  turned  from  deep  blue  to  purple,  banks  of  white 
clouds  floating  up  out  of  the  wilderness  below ; the  sky  above  faded 
through  all  the  shades  of  pink  to  lilac  and  to  purple,  until  even  the 
flecks  of  clouds  tinged  with  the  last  reflected  rays  were  wiped  out 
entirely.  At  night,  looking  south,  we  could  see  the  fires  of  the  wild 
Indians  of  the  Gran  Chaco. 

Besides  the  Anglo-Saxons,  there  were  the  managers  of  two  “ Bel- 
gian ” houses  — the  only  stores  for  some  hundred  miles  around,  mere 
thatched  huts  like  the  rest,  with  no  distinguishing  signs  — an  odd  Ger- 
man or  two,  an  argentino  who  wore  shoes;  and  the  rest  were  barefoot 
natives,  except  for  an  occasional  sun-faded  passerby.  Like  San  Jose, 
Santiago  de  Chiquitos,  set  almost  exactly  in  the  geographical  center  of 
South  America,  was  a “ reduction  ” of  the  Jesuits,  with  more  than  1500 
inhabitants  at  the  time  of  their  expulsion.  To-day  it  is  a sleepy  little 
hamlet  of  some  two  streets  of  one-story  huts  among  gentle  and  fron- 
doso  hills,  with  a constant  breeze  and  no  insects,  lolling  through  an 
easy,  barefoot,  loose-gowned  existence,  chiefly  in  hammocks.  Coffee 
bushes  fill  every  back  yard,  the  coffee  of  Santiago  being  famous  through 
all  Chiquitos.  A languid  commerce  in  cattle,  sugar,  and  alcohol  is 
carried  on  intermittently ; the  region  round  about  is  rich  in  timber. 
High  above  all  else  a wonderfully  beautiful  palm-tree  stands  out 
against  the  cerulean  sky. 

The  inhabitants  retain  many  of  the  customs  bequeathed  them  by  the 
Jesuits.  Only  a wooden  church  was  built  here,  with  four  bells  in  a 
wooden  tower  on  legs  some  distance  from  the  main  building.  Into 
this  an  Indian  climbs  several  times  a day,  and  more  often  by  night,  to 
make  life  hideous.  Why  the  Loyolists  were  so  fond  of  the  continual 
hammering  of  these  instruments  of  torture  was  a mystery  to  me  at  the 
time,  but  in  the  library  of  Asuncion  I ran  across  an  old  volume  that 
explained  the  matter.  The  writer,  a European  member  of  the  brother- 
hood, visiting  a “ reduction,”  asked  the  superior  why  the  Padres  saw 
fit  to  keep  themselves  awake  most  of  the  night  for  no  apparent  reason. 
The  Jesuit  answered:  “Brother,  we  keep  our  faithful  flock  toiling 

all  day  in  the  fields.  After  the  evening  meal  they  drop  at  once  to 
sleep  without  remembering  their  marital  duties.  Their  first  fatigue 
worn  off,  we  remind  them  of  those  duties  now  and  then  during;  the 
night,  waking  them  up  with  the  noise  of  drums  and  bells,  to  the  end 
that  the  succeeding  generation  may  be  larger,  to  the  glorification  of 
the  Sacred  Church  and  our  Holy  Society.”  And  to  think  that  I had 

595 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 

fancied  the  jangling  of  church-bells  all  down  the  length  of  the  Andes 
to  be  a mere  caprice  of  the  holy  fathers ! 

The  fiestas  of  Jesuit  days  are  religiously  preserved.  Several  nights 
we  were  kept  awake  by  the  monotonous,  heathenish  beating  of  a drum, 
often  accompanied  by  a shrill  fife.  By  day,  to  the  “ music  ” of  these, 
most  of  the  population  marched  round  and  round  the  town,  holding 
hands  and  swinging  them  high  before  and  behind  them  in  a kind  of 
shuffle  and  whirl  on  their  bare  feet  in  the  silent  sand  streets,  getting 
ever  drunker  on  chicha  of  maize  or  the  stronger  totay.  They  danced 
also  the  chobena,  to  the  accompaniment  of  the  manais,  a hollow  cala- 
bash with  seeds  inside  it.  There  was  no  resident  priest,  but  an  old 
Indian  who  had  assisted  the  former  cura  conducted  a service  each 
Sunday,  always  ending  it  with  a debauch  that  hung  over  into  the  mid- 
dle of  the  week.  There  is  one  custom,  however,  which  even  the 
Jesuits  could  not  bequeath  them, — that  of  industry.  In  the  olden 
days  the  entire  population  was  sent  to  work  each  morning  with 
drums,  prayers,  and  processions ; to-day  only  the  processions,  prayers, 
and  drums  remain. 

As  in  all  Chiquitos,  the  women  and  girls  of  Santiago,  chiefly  Indian 
in  blood,  with  now  and  then  a trace  of  the  negro,  solidly  built  as  an 
anta,  wear  only  the  loose  tipoy.  Their  customs  are,  if  possible,  even 
more  easy-going  than  those  of  San  Jose.  Yet  they  are  by  no  means 
forward,  being  rather  bashful,  indeed,  with  little  sense  of  wrong-doing, 
and  are  said  to  yield  more  easily  to  blandishments  and  trinkets  than  to 
money.  The  former  priest  demanded  fabulous  sums  for  his  services, 
which  is  no  doubt  one  of  several  reasons  why  virtually  none,  even  of 
the  “ best  families,”  are  married.  The  moral  attitude  of  the  place 
may  most  easily  be  gaged  by  an  episode  that  occurred  during  my  stay. 
A shoemaker  living  in  the  other  half  of  the  thatched  hut  occupied 
by  “ los  americanos  ” learned  that  the  young  woman  who  passed  as 
his  wife  had  yielded  to  the  entreaties  of  one  of  the  foreigners.  He 
beat  the  girl  until  her  cries  could  be  heard  in  the  office  across  the 
broad  plaza.  But  when,  next  day,  he  met  the  offending  American, 
he  bowed  respectfully  with  a polite,  “ Buenos  dias,  senor.  Y como 
esta  uste’  ? ” 

The  distance  from  Santa  Cruz  de  la  Sierra  to  the  Paraguay  turned 
out  to  be  135  leagues,  something  over  400  miles,  divided  as  follows: 
Santa  Cruz  to  San  Jose,  56  leagues;  to  Santiago,  32;  to  Santa  Ana, 
25;  to  Puerto  Suarez,  22.  The  last  stage  of  the  journey  I covered 
astride  one  of  the  company’s  mules,  hardly  an  improvement  in  comfort 

596 


The  shoemaker  who  lived  next  door  to  "lcs  americanos”  in  Santiago  de  Chiquitos,  and 

his  latest  “ wife 


A birthday  dance  in  Santiago  de  Chiquitos,  in  honor  of  the  German  in  the  center  background. 
The  man  dancing  with  the  latter’s  “housekeeper”  is  an  Englishman 
born  in  the  Argentine 


SKIRTING  THE  GRAN  CHACO 


over  walking,  on  such  a route.  Luckily,  the  rains  were  deaayed  that 
year,  or  the  difficulties  of  all  this  trans-Bolivian  journey  would  have 
been  quadrupled,  and  I might  have  been  held  for  months  in  the  hilltop 
hamlet  of  Santiago  until  the  floods  common  to  the  twenty-leagues  or 
more  west  of  the  Paraguay  subsided.  Day  after  day  we  rode  through 
the  endless  forest  that  crowded  us  close  on  either  hand,  with  no  other 
sign  of  humanity  than  the  sulky  mozo  trotting  behind  me,  sleeping  in 
some  tiny  pascana  where  a moon  so  bright  one  could  have  read  by  it 
looked  down  upon  the  crosses  of  soldiers  and  travelers  who  had  died 
on  other  journeys,  or  peered  dully  in  at  me  through  the  mesh  of  my 
mosquitero.  Palmares,  quagmires  thick-grown  with  hardy  palm- 
trees,  in  which  we  plunged  to  the  saddle  for  long  distances,  alternated 
with  thirsty  stretches  of  waterless  sand.  In  places  the  heavier  woods 
gave  way  to  dense  brush,  head-high  and  always  thorny.  Across  these, 
to  the  right,  lay  the  vast  Bolivian  Chaco  — or  the  Paraguayan,  accord- 
ing to  how  the  dispute  shall  finally  be  settled  — in  which  the  sun  set 
so  blood-red  that  the  painter  who  dared  put  half  the  reality  on  canvas 
would  be  accused  of  gross  exaggeration.  A strip  of  delicate  pink  sky 
blended  quickly  into  the  wet-blue  of  the  endless  jungle,  darkness 
settled  quickly  down,  and  we  rode  noiselessly  on,  the  sky  an  immense 
field  of  stars,  bats  circling  around  our  heads  and  alighting  again  and 
again  in  the  sandy  road  ahead,  to  spring  up  with  a peculiar  little  squeak 
when  the  mule’s  hoofs  had  all  but  touched  them.  No  other  sound  was 
heard,  except  the  chirping  of  the  jungle,  chiefly  the  long-drawn  creak 
and  short  staccato  of  two  species  of  crickets,  and  occasionally  the  noise 
of  some  wild  animal  fleeing  unseen  at  our  approach.  On  such  a night 
we  came  to  the  Tucabaca,  the  only  river  of  size  between  the  Guapay 
and  the  Paraguay.  I ordered  a halt  until  the  moon  appeared,  but 
clouds  hid  it,  and  we  came  perilously  near  losing  a mule  in  forcing  the 
frightened  animals  across.  Frequently  the  Tucabaca  rises  in  a few 
hours  to  a raging  torrent  that  can  only  be  crossed  in  a pelota,  or  in  the 
dugout  of  a surly  old  Brazilian  negro  living  in  a cluster  of  huts  on 
the  further  bank. 

At  Santa  Ana,  eighteen  waterless  miles  beyond,  we  were  overtaken 
by  two  of  the  gringo  colony  of  Santiago.  Calling  itself  a city,  the 
place  is  merely  a row  of  thatched  huts  around  a grass-grown  space, 
with  a mud-hole  to  keep  it  alive,  saintly  in  its  customs  as  all  the 
towns  of  this  saintly  route.  Its  corregidor  takes  orders,  not  from 
the  subprefect  of  San  Jose,  but  from  the  delegado  at  Puerto  Suarez, 
sent  out  from  La  Paz  by  way  of  Chile,  Argentina,  Paraguay,  and 

597 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


Brazil!  The  place  is  a headquarters  of  jejenes,  and  the  wild  Indians 
descend  upon  it  periodically.  At  the  very  edge  of  the  hamlet  lies  a 
barrizal,  a mud-hole  three  miles  long,  famous  for  its  victims.  But 
beyond,  territory  which  the  year  before  had  been  an  almost  unbroken 
lake  was  for  long  stretches  without  water  to  drink,  though  we  wal- 
lowed in  more  than  one  swamp  and  slough.  Near  the  corrals  of 
Yacuces,  in  a low,  humid  region  where  rain  often  falls,  we  came 
upon  telegraph-poles,  old  and  sagging,  heavy  with  parasites  and 
creepers.  The  line  planned  by  the  government  from  Puerto  Suarez 
to  Santa  Cruz  had  been  abandoned  some  forty  miles  out,  and  cart- 
drivers  now  cut  down  the  poles  and  use  the  wire  to  repair  their 
wagons. 

On  the  last  morning  we  woke  at  two  to  find  the  moon  brilliant,  and 
pulling  on  our  soggy  garments,  pushed  eagerly  forward.  On  the  right 
the  Southern  Cross  stood  forth  brightly  whenever  a fleck  of  cloud 
veiled  the  moon.  Away  in  the  forest  monkeys  wailed  their  ever- 
lasting plaint.  Great  masses  of  green  vines,  covering  irregular  giant 
bushes,  looked  like  German  castles  in  the  moonlight.  The  first  flush 
of  day  showed  in  the  V-shaped  opening  ahead  the  shoulders  of  the 
advance  horseman,  cutting  into  the  paling  sky  and  blotting  out  the 
bright  morning  star.  Then  dawn  “ came  up  like  thunder  ” out  of  the 
endless  wilderness,  and  somehow  it  seemed  wasteful  to  keep  the  moon 
burning  after  the  tropical  sunshine  had  flooded  all  the  scene.  Tall, 
slender  palms,  and  all  possible  forms  of  trees,  festooned  and  draped 
with  vines  in  fantastic  web  and  lace  effects,  stood  out  against  the  sky. 
Masses  of  pink  morning-glories  quickly  shrunk  under  the  sun’s  glare ; 
brown  moor-hens,  flicking  their  black  tails  saucily,  foraged  about  mud- 
holes  and  flew  clumsily,  like  chickens,  with  little  half-jumps,  as  we 
passed.  Beyond  the  pascana.of  Tacuaral,  with  its  myriad  of  slim 
tacnara  palms,  the  country  that  should  have  been  flooded  at  this  sea- 
son was  utterly  waterless.  Hour  after  sun-baked  hour  we  jogged  on, 
our  thirsty  animals  stumbling  in  the  enormous  sun-dried  cart-ruts. 
An  occasional  hut  with  a banana-grove  appeared  in  a tiny  space  shaved 
out  of  the  bristling  forest.  In  mid-afternoon  we  sighted  through  the 
heat  rays  ahead  a wide  street,  with  red-tiled  buildings  and  open  water 
beyond,  backed  far  away  by  low  wooded  ridges,  and  the  Port  of  Suarez 
and  the  end  of  Bolivia  was  at  hand.  It  was  two  months  to  a day  since 
Tommy  and  I had  set  out  from  Cochabamba. 

Dawn  was  just  beginning  to  paint  red  the  humid  air  between  jungle 
and  sky  across  the  lagoon  of  Caceres,  a backwater  of  the  river  Para- 

598 


SKIRTING  THE  GRAN  CHACO 


guay,  when  I descended  to  its  edge  and,  by  dint  of  acrobatic  feats 
of  equilibrium,  managed  a bath  and  left  behind  in  the  mud  and  slime, 
like  fallen  heroes  of  many  a campaign,  the  remnants  of  my  tramp- 
ing garb.  As  I climbed  the  bank  new-clad,  there  persisted  the  feel- 
ing that  I had  heartlessly  abandoned  some  faithful  friend  of  long  stand- 
ing. The  gasoline  launch  chugged  more  than  two  hours  across  the 
muddy  lagoa  before  there  rose  from  the  jungle,  on  a bit  of  knoll, 
the  modern  city  of  Corumba,  in  the  Brazilian  State  of  Matto  Grosso,  to 
the  residents  of  which  the  appearance  of  a lone  traveler  from  out 
the  ferocious  wilds  and  haunts  of  bugres  beyond  the  lagoon  that  ends 
their  world  was  little  less  wonder-provoking  than  the  arrival  of  one 
from  a distant  planet.  Here  at  last  was  civilization, — expensive 
civilization  — and  steamers  every  few  days  to  Asuncion  and  Buenos 
Aires. 


S99 


CHAPTER  XXII 


SOUTHWARD  THROUGH  GUARANI  LAND 

WITH  a deep  blast  from  her  ocean-going  whistle  the 
Asuncion  of  the  Mihanovich  Line  swung  out  through  the 
shipping  of  a crowded  port  and  was  off  down  the  Paraguay. 
The  steamer  was  easily  the  equal  of  the  best  on  the  Hudson ; its  officers 
and  stewards,  all  argentinos,  were  as  white  as  you  or  I,  though  the 
passengers  ran  to  all  shades,  and  it  was  little  short  of  startling  to 
see  white  waiters  serving  and  kowtowing  to  haughty  Brazilian  half-In- 
dians  and  negroes.  Green  jungle,  occasionally  broken  by  prairie-like 
stretches  studded  with  dainty  palm-trees,  like  wheels  of  greenery  on 
the  ends  of  broomsticks,  sped  rapidly  past.  We  stopped  at  several 
towns  and  estancias,  now  in  Brazil,  now  in  Paraguay;  here  and  there 
a lone  passenger,  standing  erect  in  his  boat,  was  rowed  out  by  a pair 
of  peons,  and  picked  up  as  we  slowed  down  for  a moment.  On  the 
second  morning  we  halted  at  the  estate  of  an  Irishman  on  Brazilian 
soil,  the  passengers  going  to  inspect  a jaguar  and  a huge  wild-cat  in 
home-made  cages,  while  cow-boys  roped  a steer  and,  dragging  it  down 
to  the  edge  of  the  bank  to  spare  themselves  the  labor  of  carrying  the 
carcass,  slaughtered  in  plain  sight  of  all  what  was  served  as  beefsteak 
that  noon  and  evening.  Now  and  again  we  put  in  at  a little  Para- 
guayan town,  swarming  with  barefoot  boy-soldiers  in  faded  khaki,  with 
a reputation  for  shooting  on  the  slightest  provocation.  Old  women 
came  on  hoard  with  bread,  watermelons,  and  clumsy  native  cigars, 
scorning  Brazilian  money,  and  demanding  the  ragged  and  all  but 
worthless  bills  of  their  own  land.  Here  a new  language  appeared,  the 
palatal  Guarani  sounding  on  all  sides.  The  evening  of  the  second  day 
brought  us  to  Villa  Concepcion,  one  of  the  six  incorporated  “ cities  ” 
of  Paraguay,  which  might  easily  be  mistaken  for  a village.  An  occa- 
sional estancia  along  the  bank  had  a little  railroad,  with  screeching  toy 
locomotives  and  an  electric  lighting  plant  of  its  own.  The  Para- 
guayan gaucho,  or  cow-boy,  had  the  independent  air  of  men  who  will 
not  be  imposed  upon.  He  wore  a large  straw  hat,  a colored  kerchief 
about  his  neck,  the  chiripa,  huge,  baggy  cotton  trousers  with  a pucker- 

600 


SOUTHWARD  THROUGH  GUARANI  LAND 


ing-string  about  his  bare  ankles  as  a protection  against  the  gnats  and 
climbing  insects,  and  in  most  cases  a blacksmith’s  leather  apron  with 
a long  fringe,  a necessity  for  riders  through  the  thorny  undergrowth. 
Over  this  all  wore  a wide  leather  belt,  with  several  buttoned  pockets 
bulging  with  their  probably  not  great  wealth,  and  a big  knife  in  a 
leather  scabbard  stuck  in  carelessly  behind,  as  if  ever  ready  to  be 
drawn  on  the  instant. 

On  the  morning  of  the  fourth  day  I was  awakened  by  a long  blast 
of  the  whistle,  and  peered  out  of  my  hammock  to  find  the  steamer 
anchored  among  extensive  docks.  It  was  that  soft  moment  of  dawn 
when  the  sun  is  just  trembling  in  stage- fright  below  the  eastern  hori- 
zon, the  lower  sky  streaked  with  delicate  colors,  the  air  of  that 
velvety  texture  known  only  at  such  hours  in  the  tropics.  Then  the 
day  blazed  forth  in  all  its  brilliancy,  putting  the  night  breeze  to  igno- 
minious rout,  and  disclosing  a low  city,  its  chief  square  lined  by  two- 
story  buildings,  the  largest  of  which  I recognized,  from  photographs, 
as  Paraguay’s  government  palace.  One  of  a score  of  hirsute,  pirati- 
cal-looking boatmen,  neo-poetic  names  painted  in  gaudy  colors  on  the 
poops  of  their  crafts,  rowed  me  ashore  with  a few  strokes,  and  at 
the  wooden  steps  of  the  custom-house  answered  my  “How  much?” 
with  a “ What  it  pleases  you,  senor.”  Either  the  boatmen  of  Asuncion 
are  unlike  their  tribe  elsewhere,  or  my  face  had  lost  that  innocent,  child- 
like air  of  earlier  days.  I rewarded  his  honesty  with  two  Para- 
guayan dollars, — that  is,  about  eleven  cents, — and  marching  through 
my  trunk-burdened  fellow-passengers,  thrust  my  bundle  toward  a 
pompous  cholo  in  a cream-colored  suit.  He  peered  through  the  slit  in 
my  deerskin  kodak-cover,  asked  a question  about  the  bundled  develop- 
ing-tank,  waved  a hand  with  a regal-toned  “ Puede  retirarse,”  (“  You 
may  withdraw  yourself”),  and  I stepped  ashore  in  Asuncion  del 
Paraguay. 

The  capital  of  the  Inland  Republic  is  its  only  real  city,  claiming 
some  eighty  thousand  inhabitants,  or  one  tenth  the  present  population 
of  a land  that  once,  with  nearly  two  millions,  ranked  with  Brazil  and 
the  Argentine  as  the  most  important  of  South  America.  To-day, 
thanks  to  revolutions,  anarchy,  Lopez  and  his  French  mistress,  and 
the  consequent  stagnation,  it  is  in  the  far  background  of  modern  prog- 
ress. It  spreads  over  a considerable  space  of  what  is  really  rolling 
ground  — though  to  one  fresh  from  nearly  two  years  in  the  Andes  it 
seemed  monotonously  flat.  Across  the  river,  on  a curve  of  which  it 
halts  abruptly,  lies  the  sea-flat,  trackless  chaco,  the  abode  of  nomadic 

601 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


Indians,  dense-blue  by  day,  and  fading  to  purple  under  the  setting 
sun.  Unfortunately,  Francia,  “ El  Supremo,”  dictator  for  a third 
of  a century,  sought  to  “ beautify  ” the  town  by  filling  its  lagoons, 
straightening  its  jumble  of  tortuous  lanes,  and  reducing  it  to  a feature- 
less similarity  to  all  other  capitals  of  its  kind  and  size.  Travelers  of 
past  centuries  are  agreed  that  the  chief  charm  of  old  Asuncion  was 
due  to  its  delightful  irregularity.  Certainly  its  ancient  fascination  is 
gone,  and  to-day  it  is  nothing  but  a languid  little  capital  of  a stagnant 
country,  the  least  interesting  of  any  I had  seen  in  South  America. 

The  time-worn  assertion  that  the  population  of  Paraguay  is  wholly 
Indian  in  blood  is  a decided  overstatement.  In  Asuncion  one  sees 
at  least  as  many  whites  as  in  La  Paz.  Nor  is  it  true  that  there  are 
nine  women  to  every  man.  True,  Francia  wiped  out  the  old  Span- 
iards for  conspiring  against  him ; forty  years  ago,  in  the  days  of  Lopez,  ’ 
the  wars  reduced  the  proportion  to  seventeen  to  one.  But  time  and 
migrating  males  have  all  but  repaired  these  ravages,  though  many  a 
man  still  lives  on  the  exertions  of  his  harem,  one  of  the  several  women 
of  which  is  his  legal  wife,  and  the  majority  of  children  born  in  the 
country  are  illegitimate.  In  general  the  place  has  a different  atmos- 
phere, a blase  air  little  like  the  towns  of  the  Andes.  Among  these 
less  simple  people,  particularly  the  denizens  of  the  “ Centro 
Espanol,”  where  I was  “ put  up  ” during  my  stay,  one  got  the  feeling 
that  conventionality  was  not  morality;  there  was  something  about 
their  suave,  well-bred  manners  that  made  one  feel  that  deep  down 
they  were  no  such  sticklers  for  honesty  and  justice  as  for  the  ur- 
banities of  life.  Or  would  the  artificiality  of  any  “ civilized  ” place 
have  struck  a discordant  note  to  one  coming  suddenly  out  of  a long 
stay  in  the  wilderness? 

It  is  in  Asuncion  that  the  traveler  from  the  north  notes  the  first 
advance  of  the  immigration  that  is  to  increase  to  swamping  propor- 
tions in  the  Argentine,  as  he  moves  southward.  Paraguay  is  making 
strenuous,  though  not  very  tactful,  efforts  to  increase  immigration, 
under  an  immigration  bureau  in  the  hands  of  a German.  Commerce 
and  government  are  largely  in  the  hands  of  foreigners,  at  least  of  the 
second  generation,  even  the  president  being  a Swiss  in  blood  and  name. 
Paraguay’s  civilization  is  not  strong  enough  to  absorb  the  newcomers ; 
one  hears  German,  Italian,  or  Catalan  almost  as  often  as  the  native 
Guarani.  This  latter  is  the  real  speech  of  the  country.  Spanish  is 
spoken  only  in  the  cities,  and  even  there  the  people  use  among  them- 
selves the  remnants  of  the  aboriginal  tongue.  Teachers  in  large  vil- 

602 


SOUTHWARD  THROUGH  GUARANI  LAND 


lages  often  cannot  speak  Castilian ; the  few  Paraguayan  countrymen 
who  know  it  are  “ afraid  ” to  use  it  for  fear  their  fellows  will 
ridicule  them  for  trying  to  show  off.  There  has  been  more  than  one 
movement  on  foot  to  make  Guarani  the  official,  as  well  as  the  actual, 
language  of  the  country. 

The  money  of  Paraguay  has  fallen  to  low  estate.  Step  into  a bank 
and  throw  down  an  English  sovereign,  and  there  will  be  thrust  upon 
you  some  $90  in  native  currency,  bringing  the  peso  down  to  little 
more  than  the  value  of  our  nickel.  Metal  money  is  unknown;  the 
paper  bills  made  in  London  and  New  York  are  in  universal  use,  the 
smaller  denominations  being  ragged  and  dirty  to  the  point  of  illegibil- 
ity, and  often  patched  with  scraps  of  newspaper.  “ The  nation,’’  runs 
the  device  on  these  tattered  billetes  “ recognizes  this  bill  as  fifty  strong 
dollars,”  which  is  quite  different  from  saying  it  will  be  redeemed  at 
that  rate.  Street-car  fares,  now  75,  had  been  67^2  centavos,  and  the 
company  had  found  it  necessary  to  print  its  own  change  in  2p2-centavo 
pieces,  worth  — well,  let  fractional  experts  figure  it  out.  Eggs  sold 
in  the  market  at  $7  a dozen ; a hair-cut  cost  $5,  and  it  was  not  a five- 
dollar  hair-cut.  On  the  other  hand,  postage  is  the  cheapest  on  earth, 
evidently  because  the  rates  had  been  established  and  the  stamps  printed 
before  the  money  depreciated. 

After  the  first  investigation  I put  off  replenishing  my  wardrobe  un- 
til I should  reach  Buenos  Aires.  It  was  not  merely  because  the 
tailor  showed  me  shoddy  stuff  and  demanded  $350  for  a suit  of  it ! 
The  local  styles  were  even  more  startling  than  the  price  mentioned  in 
so  off-hand  a manner.  The  trousers  demanded  by  custom,  for  ex- 
ample, be  they  made  by  a local  tailor  or  imported  from  Europe,  are 
built  up  as  high  as  trousers  could  by  any  stretch  of  the  word  go ; then 
on  top  of  this  comes  an  enormous  belt-piece,  so  wide  that  it  requires 
three  buttons  to  fasten  it,  clamping  the  garment  up  about  the  armpits. 
If  only  they  would  use  a couple  of  inches  more,  they  could  button  the 
trousers  about  the  neck,  fasten  a collar  on  them,  and  dispense  with  the 
expense  of  a shirt  entirely.  In  the  olden  days,  it  is  said,  the  Inca  tribes 
gave  the  inhabitants  of  this  region  the  name  of  “ guara-ni  ” (breech- 
less ones).  The  bloomer-like  amplitude  of  the  trousers  of  the  coun- 
tryman, and  the  height  of  those  of  his  city  cousin,  suggests  that 
they  resent  the  implied  insult  keenly,  and  have  resolved  to  leave  no 
opportunity  for  its  repetition.  Somewhere  around  this  uncharted  ex- 
panse of  trouser  every  one,  from  merchant  to  peon,  wears  a leather 
belt  at  least  six  inches  wide,  a combination  of  coin  and  revolver  carry- 

603 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


all,  held  together  with  several  buckles  of  the  size  of  those  on  a horse’s 
saddle-cinch. 

The  “ International  ” train  leaves  Asuncion  every  Wednesday  and 
Saturday  morning,  and  lands  the  traveler  in  Montevideo  or  Buenos 
Aires  fifty  hours  later.  The. through  and  local  fares  vary  greatly,  the 
former  being  subjected  to  the  competition  of  the  river  steamers.  First 
and  second-class  rates  to  Buenos  Aires  are  $450  and  $325  respectively ; 
local  fares  are  $680  and  $460!  Luckily,  this  is  in  Paraguayan  cur- 
rency ; but  even  when  turned  into  real  money,  it  remains  a respectable 
rate.  For  half  a day  we  steamed  across  broad  pampas,  almost  prairies, 
backed  by  wooded  ridges,  isolated  masses  of  dark  rock  standing  forth 
here  and  there  in  the  middle  distance,  dim  outlines  of  low  mountains 
hovering  on  the  horizon.  The  broad  savannas  were  speckled  with 
cattle,  somewhat  gaunt,  but  of  vastly  better  stock  than  those  of  the 
Andes,  a bulky  China  bull  here  and  there  explaining  the  improvement. 

Every  man  on  the  train  was  armed,  the  weapons  varying  from 
flint-lock,  muzzle-loading  horse-pistols  to  the  very  latest  automatic. 
The  revolver  is  a sign  of  caste  in  Paraguay ; my  companions  accepted 
me  as  one  of  them  only  when  I had  shown  my  own.  When  the  con- 
ductor came  through  for  tickets,  his  friends  and  acquaintances  play- 
fully pointed  their  weapons  at  him.  The  faces  of  many,  even  youth- 
ful, men  were  scarred  from  the  latest  revolution,  like  the  battered 
fagades  of  Asuncion.  Every  native  aboard, — women,  children,  the 
train-crew,  even  the  train-guard  in  his  white  uniform  and  helmet  — 
smoked  big,  black  cigars,  which  are  really  nothing  more  than  the  black- 
ened natural  leaf  rolled  up  in  cigar  form.  Brown  maidens,  physically 
not  unattractive,  sat  with  a half-smoked  stogy  in  a corner  of  their 
mouths,  and  now  and  then  spat  through  their  teeth  like  New  York 
toughs.  The  cigarette,  all  but  universal  elsewhere  on  my  journey, 
finds  slight  favor  in  Paraguay.  At  the  stations,  peons  in  baggy 
chiripas  mingled  with  estancicros,  their  neck-high  trousers  tucked  into 
soft  leather  boots,  a silver-headed  rcbenque,  or  short  riding-whip, 
hanging  from  their  wrists  by  a leather  thong.  Women  squatted  on  the 
brick  flaggings,  selling  anything  from  raw  beefsteaks  to  the  native 
fire-water.  Though  there  were  many  stations,  the  towns  were  rarely 
visible,  except  a single  church-tower  marking  the  site  some  distance 
off.  Being  built  on  knolls,  the  expense  of  entering  them  has  been 
avoided  by  the  railway  constructors.  The  few  that  were  seen  were 
triste  at  best,  the  populations,  lolling  about  the  openings  that  serve 
as  doors,  ragged  and  ambitionless.  At  Loque  station,  women  wearing 

604 


A view  from  the  promenade-deck  of  the  steamer  of  cowboys  of  Paraguay  slaughtering  our 
day’s  beefsteak  on  the  bank  of  the  river 


A Paraguayan  landscape,  with  native  cart,  the  tall  tough  grass,  and  the  tacurus,  or  ant-hills, 
that  abound  in  this  region 


SOUTHWARD  THROUGH  GUARANI  LAND 


from  ten  to  fifty  coarse  straw  hats  each,  languidly  offered  them  for  sale. 
At  Patino  a crude  tramway  was  waiting  to  carry  to  the  bank  of  the 
river  the  passengers  for  San  Bernadino,  Paraguay’s  “ watering-place,” 
on  the  beautiful  fresh-water  lake  of  Ypacarai.  Then  came  Paraguari, 
famous  for  its  revolutions,  commercial  center  of  all  the  old  missions 
for  a hundred  miles  around,  leaf-roofed,  two-wheel  carts  awaiting 
freight  or  passengers.  Seventy-five  miles  from  the  capital  we  skirted 
Villa  Rica,  second  city  of  the  Inland  Republic,  with  a commerce  in 
tobacco,  sugar,  and  lumber,  but  a mere  village  in  all  but  name. 

At  the  small  prairie  station  of  Borja,  from  which  some  fellow-coun- 
trymen were  constructing  a branch  line  some  day  to  reach  the  Iguazu 
Falls,  I abandoned  the  “ International,”  and  was  soon  speeding  away 
across  the  flat  country  in  a track  automobile.  At  best  the  Paraguyan 
landscape  is  monotonous,  vast  plains  of  reddish  soil  and  coarse  grass 
stretching  away  until  lost  to  view,  here  and  there  broken  by  thick 
clumps  of  forest.  Ever  and  again  we  were  slowed  down  or  halted  by 
reddish  half-wild  cattle  on  the  un fenced  track ; the  pampa  was  sprin- 
kled with  them  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see.  The  plains  either  are, 
or  are  fancied  to  be,  of  no  value  for  agriculture,  and  are  left  to  grazing, 
while  the  languid  natives,  swinging  in  their  hammocks  under  their  wall- 
less roofs  in  the  edges  of  the  forest  clumps,  raised  a bit  of  corn  and 
tobacco  in  plantations  hacked  out  of  the  woods,  and  trusted  Providence 
for  the  rest.  Ponderous,  springless,  two-wheeled  ox-carts  that  seemed 
all  wheels  labored  by.  Everywhere  the  tacuru,  or  cone-shaped  ant- 
hills, stood  head-high  in  the  tall  grass.  My  companions  told  of 
tacuriis  erected  during  a single  night  in  the  middle  of  earth-floored 
dwellings  and  requiring  the  exertions  of  a band  of  workmen  to  dig 
them  out. 

At  length  we  drew  up  before  the  rough-board  headquarters  at 
Charana.  It  being  Saturday  evening,  the  entire  region,  men,  women, 
and  children,  proposed  to  ride  into  Borja  on  the  work-train,  to  squan- 
der their  month’s  wages  and  remain  several  days  drunk.  The  young 
American  superintendent,  however,  issued  orders  to  the  Paraguayan 
soldiers  that  had  bgen  assigned  him,  and  though  these  looked  anything 
but  fierce  in  their  ragged  khaki  and  bare  feet,  the  throng  lost  no  time 
in  obeying  their  orders  to  disembark.  For  all  their  childlike  demeanor, 
the  soldiers  of  Paraguay  have  a reputation  for  shooting  on  scant 
provocation. 

We  pushed  on  along  battered  old  rails,  through  forest  and  jungle, 
with  here  and  there  a bank  of  red  clay,  some  ten  miles  to  railhead, 

605 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


the  line  squirming  its  way  around  every  knoll,  the  cheap  engines  to  be 
employed  requiring  that  there  be  nothing  steeper  than  a one  percent 
grade.  Advance  gangs  had  hacked  out  a cart-road  for  some  distance 
beyond,  where  the  territory  was  growing  so  dense-wooded  and  hilly 
that  the  superintendent  was  considering  the  use  of  balloons  to  survey 
the  country. 

Back  at  the  main  camp  I had  my  first  mate,  or  “ Paraguayan  tea.” 
The  yerba  mate  is  to  the  life  of  Paraguay  and  its  adjoining  regions 
what  coca  leaves  are  to  the  Andes.  In  the  yerbales  the  leaves  and 
smaller  branches  of  an  evergreen  bush  not  unlike  the  holly,  growing 
among  taller  trees,  are  spread  on  a raised  platform  of  poles,  smoked 
and  dried,  forced  through  to  the  earth  floor  beneath,  beaten  almost  to 
a powder  with  clubs,  and  packed  in  tcrcios  by  sewing  up  green  ox- 
hides, which  shrink  until  the  contents  is  stone-hard.  The  gringo  en- 
gineers had  come  to  prefer  this  native  beverage  to  coffee  or  tea, 
though  they  drank  it  in  cups,  with  sugar  and  milk.  The  native  way  is 
to  put  a spoonful  of  the  powdered  yerba  in  a little  pear-shaped  gourd, 
pour  this  full  of  boiling  water,  and  suck  the  “ tea  ” through  a brass  or 
silver  tube,  or  in  the  case  of  the  poorer  people,  a reed.  One  spoonful 
suffices  for  a score  of  persons,  the  gourd  being  passed  from  one  to 
another  of  a group,  each  time  being  refilled  with  water,  the  drinker 
taking  care  not  to  burn  .hands  or  lips  on  gourd  or  tube.  To  any  but 
a foreigner  it  would  be  an  insult  to  offer  a separate  bowl.  The  green- 
ish liquid  was  bitter  in  taste  and  by  no  means  pleasant,  but  was  due  in 
time  to  become  my  favorite  beverage,  as  it  does  with  most  gringos  who 
continue  the  use  of  it.  Everywhere  in  this  region  one  runs  upon 
natives  loafing  in  the  shade,  a mate-gourd,  sometimes  carved  with  fan- 
tastic figures,  grasped  in  one  hand,  lazily  imbibing  the  liquid  at  regular 
intervals.  Unlike  the  coca,  it  has  no  narcotic  effect ; it  is,  on  the  con- 
trary, beneficial  in  stomachic  ailments.  The  cjaucho  of  the  pampas 
makes  it  serve  as  bread  and  vegetables  in  his  fixed  diet  of  asado  con 
cnero,  or  beef  roasted  in  the  hide.  Many  an  attempt  has  been  made 
to  introduce  mate  to  the  rest  of  the  world,  so  far,  unfortunately,  in 
vain. 

I fell  asleep  toward  dawn  on  a cot  set  out  in  the  breeze,  to  the  rattle 
of  poker-chips,  the  clinking  of  bottles  and  glasses,  and  cries  of  “ One 
hundred  dollars!”  “Two  hundred  and  fifty!”  from  the  “office”  in 
which  the  gringo  community  had  gathered.  Next  evening  a local  train 
set  me  down  in  the  heavy  darkness  at  Villa  Encarnacion,  up  to  a few 
months  before  the  halting-place  for  the  night  of  the  “ Internacional.” 

606 


SOUTHWARD  THROUGH  GUARANI  LAND 


In  name  one  of  the  six  “ cities  ” of  Paraguay,  the  place  was  a drowsy, 
barefoot,  isolated  cluster  of  buildings,  rather  than  a town.  Strewn 
along  the  side  of  a red  hill,  amid  half-luxuriant  vegetation,  on  the 
banks  of  the  Parana,  the  southern  boundary  of  Paraguay,  it  covered  a 
considerable  space  of  rolling,  grassy  ground,  with  wide  paths  of  reddish 
sand  where  streets  should  have  been.  Its  slight  commerce  was  chiefly 
in  the  hands  of  Germans.  It  was  humid  with  the  rainy  season,  and 
insolent  with  its  big  ragged  garrison.  Green  parrots  screamed  in  and 
out  of  the  orange-groves,  the  fruit  of  which  was  green  in  color  even 
when  ripe  and  of  rather  acid  taste.  Across  the  Parana,  as  wide  as 
the  Hudson,  Posadas,  in  the  Argentine,  lay  banked  up  on  the  sloping 
opposite  shore,  in  plain  sight  from  any  part  of  the  town. 

Life  is  free  and  easy  in  Paraguay,  close  to  nature.  Its  women,  in  ' 
their  loose  gowns  and  bare  feet,  very  erect  from  the  practice  of  carry- 
ing loads  on  their  heads  from  childhood,  have  a childlike  simplicity,  as 
well  as  an  extremely  graceful  carriage.  Yet  I found  this  the  least 
interesting  of  South  American  countries.  Its  old  missions,  to  the 
ruined  churches  of  which,  overgrown  with  creepers,  a ride  of  a day 
or  two  from  the  railroad  at  almost  any  point  brings  one,  attract  many 
travelers ; but  I had  already  seen  these  and  better  in  tropical  Bolivia. 
With  its  education  at  a low  ebb,  chiefly  in  the  hands  of  priests  to 
whom  sacred  history  and  catechisms  are  the  sum  total  of  wisdom,  the 
present  inhabitants  of  Paraguay  leave  the  impression  of  being  in- 
capable of  much  advancement. 

The  change  from  this  languid  little  country  to  the  live  one  across 
the  river  was  almost  startling.  When  the  sun  had  declined  somewhat, 
a motor-boat  chugged  across  to  Posadas  with  a score  of  passengers, 
where  we  landed  without  ceremony  among  a group  of  Argentine  of- 
ficials, well-dressed  and  courteously  business-like.  To  those  coming 
upon  it  from  the  direction  of  Buenos  Aires,  Posadas  may  seem  small 
and  backward ; in  contrast  with  the  drowsy,  little  grass-grown  Para- 
guayan “ city  ” still  in  plain  sight  across  the  Parana,  it  is  very  much 
alive.  The  capital  of  the  territory  of  Misiones,  that  tongue  of  land 
piercing  far  up  between  Brazil  and  Paraguay  and  taking  its  name  from 
the  Jesuit  establishments  of  olden  times,  it  already  boasts  some  ten 
thousand  inhabitants,  or  more  than  the  entire  territory  contained  ten 
years  ago.  In  spite  of  being  tolerably  compact  and  two-storied  in  the 
business  section,  the  town  covers  a vast  amount  of  ground,  with  very 
wide  streets  and  ample  elbow-room  everywhere,  except  in  the  clustered 
shacks  of  laborers  along  the  river-brink.  A single  church,  its  old 

607 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


red-brick  tower  still  unfinished,  rather  Protestant  than  Catholic  in  ap- 
pearance, by  reason  of  the  simplicity  of  its  adornments  and  the  exist- 
ence of  seats  within,  takes  the  place  of  the  score  or  more  that  would 
bulk  above  a town  of  similar  size  in  the  Andes.  Here  were  hard- 
paved  streets  instead  of  sand-holes,  steam  road-rollers  and  up-to-date 
machinery,  business  activity  and  shoes,  well-kept  parks  with  plenty  of 
benches,  large,  prominent  buildings  as  schools  — just  opening  for  the 
new  year  in  this  first  week  in  March  — and  well-dressed  policemen 
of  manly  demeanor.  Canvas  cots  had  taken  the  place  of  hammocks. 
Boys  were  busy  polishing  brass  name-plates  before  important  business 
houses.  The  red  liberty-cap  now  adorned  all  government  shields, 
while  the  most  beautiful  flag  of  South  America,  the  Argentinian  white 
and  sky-blue,  flew  at  the  crest  of  many  a facade.  Here  a stranger 
could  pass  in  the  streets  without  being  stared  out  of  countenance.  The 
inhabitants  had  a look  of  eagerness  and  hope  in  their  faces,  signs  of 
at  least  a material  prosperity  in  striking  contrast  to  the  dreary  hope- 
lessness of  Andean  regions.  Yet  Posadas  is  not  forty  years  old,  while 
Encarnacion,  across  the  river,  was  founded  by  the  Jesuits  more  than 
three  centuries  ago. 

In  the  second-class  car  of  the  “ N.E.A.,”  the  “ Nord  Este  Argen- 
tine,” there  were  no  Indian  passengers,  and  though  only  a mixto,  the 
train  made  good  progress.  At  the  very  first  farm  outside  Posadas  an 
American  binder  was  felling  the  autumn  grain  — and  I had  not  seen  so 
much  as  a mower  since  crossing  the  Rio  Grande  thirty  months  before. 
At  every  station  were  uniformed  police ; mounted  officers  patroled 
the  country  roads.  Houses  along  the  way  were  not  the  dens  of  human 
animals,  but  were  supplied  with  the  comforts  of  home,  even  American 
rocking-chairs  tucked  away  in  the  shade  of  their  verandas.  I had 
come  to  the  end  of  the  great  South  American  monte  and  jungle,  and 
from  now  on  the  great  Argentine  pampas  grew  ever  broader,  slightly 
rolling  here,  stretching  away  to  infinity  on  each  hand.  The  brick-red 
soil  of  Misiones  was  given  over  to  grazing  rather  than  to  agriculture, 
though  we  passed  long  autumn-dry  corn-fields,  the  ears  broken  half  off 
and  hanging  over  to  ripen.  Cattle  were  everywhere,  and  cow-boys 
were  roping  them  here  and  there,  while  gauchos  careered  across  the 
broad  plains  on  their  hardy  pintos.  The  railroad  and  all  its  appur- 
tenances were  just  as  orderly  as  they  would  have  been  in  England, 
the  railway  architecture  of  which  it  resembled,  though  the  cars  were 
of  the  American  style.  Everything  from  engine  to  yards  was  so 
English  one  felt  sure  that,  had  they  spoken  their  language,  the  train- 

608 


The  mixture  of  types  in  the  Argentine, — a native  gaucho  in  bombachos  and  a 
Basque  immigrant  from  the  Pyrenees 


SOUTHWARD  THROUGH  GUARANI  LAND 


crews  would  have  called  the  little  four-wheeled  freight-cars  “ goods- 
vans,”  and  spoken  of  “ metals  ” and  “ sleepers.” 

It  was  some  time  after  dark  that  we  pulled  into  Santo  Tome,  or  at 
least  into  a station  bearing  that  name,  and  I concluded  that  I had 
ridden  far  enough  for  the  time  being.  The  train  did  not  enter  the 
town,  perhaps  because  it  would  have  been  hard  to  decide  just  where 
the  town  was.  In  the  Argentine  these  are  scattered  over  a vast  amount 
of  ground,  in  striking  contrast  to  the  heaped-up  crowding  common  to 
the  Andes.  A half-moon  dim-lighted  the  flat  country  far  and  wide. 
I set  out  in  the  moonlight  along  a broad  highway,  and  wandered  until 
any  hope  of  finding  a town  died  out;  then  ran  upon  a few  low,  scat- 
tered houses  that  suggested  some  insignificant  village,  like  Bolivia’s 
tropical  “ cities  ” ; then  I went  on  and  on  until  there  grew  up  about  me 
an  immense  town,  never  crowded  together,  yet  with  an  enormous 
plaza,  long  stretches  of  electric  arc-lamps,  a checkerboard  city  of  wide 
streets  and  long  blocks,  each  house  set  in  its  own  big  garden,  a town 
well-to-do,  citified,  with  many  automobiles,  and  but  a single  church,  of 
moderate  size  and  inconspicuous. 

Life  began  to  renew  about  the  station  at  3 a.m.  The  restaurant 
opened,  watchmen  lighted  big  gasoline  arc-lamps,  the  “ International  ” 
rolled  in,  and  we  were  off  again,  with  ample  room  even  in  the  second- 
class  car.  Three  hours  later  I sat  up  to  watch  the  sun  rise  red  out 
of  Uruguay,  across  the  river.  About  the  vast,  long-haired,  unkempt 
plains  stood  clumps  of  pampa  trees ; at  the  towns  were  many  gay  with 
blossoms  — spring  blossoms,  I had  almost  written,  until  I remembered 
it  was  autumn.  The  aloncita,  a bird  not  unlike  a small  robin  in  ap- 
pearance, though  with  less  red,  began  to  build  its  beehive-shaped  mud 
nest  on  the  wooden  cross-pieces  of  the  telegraph-poles.  All  day  long, 
for  hundreds  of  miles,  there  was  an  average  of  a nest  on  every  third 
pole,  always  on  the  side  farthest  from  the  railroad,  as  if  the  noise  of 
the  trains  were  annoying  to  its  inhabitants,  the  arched  doorway  always 
toward  the  direction  from  which  we  came  — the  north  — to  catch, 
perhaps,  the  warmer  breezes.  Among  hundreds  of  nests  I saw  only 
three  or  four  exceptions  to  this,  and  all  day  long  only  one  built  any- 
where else  than  on  the  cross-piece,  close  against  the  pole.  One  daring 
architect  had  set  his  on  the  top  of  the  pole  itself,  neatly  capping  it.  As 
this  particular  pole  had  its  cross-piece  already  occupied,  it  looked  as 
if  the  bird  above  was  a hard-headed  fellow  who  had  failed  to  stake  his 
claim  in  time,  but  who  insisted,  nevertheless,  on  living  in  that  particular 
spot. 


609 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


The  country  grew  more  and  more  like  our  own,  in  climate,  creature 
comforts,  news-stands,  block-signals,  uniformed  mailmen,  carts  and 
wagons,  some  of  them  of  the  boat-shaped  style  of  Poland,  rattling  past 
on  broad  highways,  busy  towns  along  the  way,  at  only  the  more  im- 
portant of  which  the  train  halted  briefly,  and  between  them  raced 
swiftly  and  smoothly  southward.  Through  the  windows  the  horizon 
of  the  great  rolling  pampa  continually  rose  and  fell.  Sometimes  it 
was  punctuated  with  a grove  of  trees,  more  rarely  with  a small  forest, 
the  chiefly  unfenced  plains  everywhere  sprinkled  with  cattle.  Here 
and  there  a nandu,  the  South  American  ostrich,  trotted  awkwardly 
away  across  the  prairie.  Where  there  were  fences,  the  wires  ran 
through  the  posts  by  holes  bored  in  them,  rather  than  being  secured 
by  staples.  Well-tended  fields  of  fruit-trees  in  long  rows  seemed 
incongruous  in  South  America ; it  brought  a feeling  of  satisfaction 
to  see  industry  and  decent  living  again,  things  being  done,  instead  of 
merely  doing  themselves.  Some  industrious  country  boys  climbed  a 
fence  with  bags  of  large,  juicy  watermelons  for  sale;  boys  merely  in 
quest  of  pocket-money  and  not  because  their  livelihood  depended  upon 
it.  The  population  at  large  was  too  busy  to  bother  with  station  hawk- 
ing. Countrymen  wore  bombachos,  enormous  bloomer-like  trousers, 
tucked  into  soft  top-boots  or  drawn  up  about  the  bare  ankles  above 
their  alpargatas,  or  hempen  soles,  as  if  the  cost  of  cloth  were  of  no 
importance.  Any  lady  would  have  remained  ladylike  in  them.  Now 
and  then  the  river  drew  up  so  close  beside  us  that  we  could  look  far 
off  across  Uruguay,  spread  out  on  the  other  side. 

At  length  we  sighted  ahead,  a sort  of  oriental  mist  hovering  about 
it,  a whitish  city  with  a two-tower  church  suggesting  minarets,  a city 
set  on  a knoll,  not  unlike  Jerusalem.  Yet  this  was  not  the  town  we 
were  approaching,  but  Salto,  in  the  “ Republica  Oriental  ” over  the 
river.  Great  fields  of  grapes,  well  tended,  began  to  race  by  us,  subur- 
ban houses  thickened,  and  we  drew  up  at  the  in-all-respects-complete 
city  of  Concordia,  four  hundred  miles  south  of  Posadas  on  the  frontier 
I had  left  twenty-four  hours  before.  In  the  Andes,  world-famous 
cities  had  been  mere  languid  villages ; in  the  Argentine,  places  the 
world  at  large  had  never  heard  of  were  large,  flourishing  metropolises. 
Concordia  numbers  twenty  thousand  inhabitants,  virtually  all  white 
and  all  alive.  Yet  it  is  not  even  the  capital,  but  merely  the  second  city 
of  the  Province  of  the  Entre  Rios  — “ Between  the  Rivers  ’’  Parana 
and  Uruguay,  famous  for  its  saladerias,  or  beef-salting  establishments. 
Well  spread  out,  it  has  few  churches  and  no  over-supply  of  priests, 

610 


SOUTHWARD  THROUGH  GUARANI  LAND 


the  former  with  few  bells  and  those  of  agreeable  tone,  which  are  rung, 
not  too  often,  instead  of  being  beaten  with  an  infernal  din.  Liquor- 
shops  are  few;  the  majority  of  the  population  finds  something  more 
worth  while  than  shopkeeping.  Its  inhabitants  know  how  to  pass  two 
abreast  on  the  sidewalks ; women  on  bicycles  bring  a frequent  start  of 
surprise ; swarms  of  cleanly  dressed  boys  and  girls  sally  forth  from 
big,  well-equipped  schools,  where  coeducation  reigns ; bootblacks  clad 
like  business  men  and  carrying  upholstered  and  decorated  seats  seek 
their  clients  in  the  well-kept  streets  and  plazas ; electric  street-cars 
give  excellent  service.  Electric  lights  both  in  streets  and  houses  were 
even  more  brilliant  than  our  own ; the  public  library  was  actually  open 
and  “ functioning,”  and  did  not  spend  its  time  staring  at  the  foreigner 
who  had  come  to  read.  In  the  “ Hotel  Garabaldi  ” — just  such  a place 
as  the  name  implies  — wine  was  served  with  meals  as  freely  as  in 
Europe,  and  though  only  the  abode  of  working-men,  it  was  superior 
to  the  best  hostlery  of  Andean  cities.  Real  beds  had  now  taken  the 
place  of  canvas  cots ; at  the  rear  was  an  electric-lighted  cancha  dc 
bochas,  or  outdoor  bowling  alley  for  the  clientele  of  Italian  workmen. 

I slipped  across  the  river  next  afternoon  to  Salto,  in  Uruguay,  add- 
ing another  country  to  my  growing  collection.  One  went  and  came 
freely,  without  frontier  formalities.  Salto  is  large,  and  several  times 
older  than  Concordia,  with  many  well-built  buildings,  yet  with  a sug- 
gestion of  “ seediness,”  a bit  more  squalor  and  barefootedness,  its 
church  not  so  imposing  and  well-kept  as  it  looks  at  a distance,  its  police- 
men in  rather  shiny  and  threadbare  uniforms,  its  streets  cobbled, 
rather  than  smoothly  paved.  In  short,  it  is  more  Spanish  in  type, 
more  clustered  together,  with  a general  air  suggesting  that  this  is  not 
quite  so  live  and  hopeful  a country  as  that  over  the  river.  Many 
proud  old  families  live  here ; yet  the  head  of  more  than  one  of  them 
slips  across  daily  to  do  business  in  the  Argentine. 

One  can  go  on  from  Concordia  to  Buenos  Aires  by  rail,  but  I chose 
to  take  the  overnight  journey  on  a big  Mihanovich  river-steamer,  with 
all  the  conveniences  of  an  ocean  liner.  The  flat,  sometimes  rolling, 
occasionally  bushy  shores  of  the  LTruguay  were  broken  by  several 
towns,  notably  the  two  model  establishments  producing  Leibig’s  ex- 
tract of  beef.  When  I returned  on  deck  next  morning  a brilliant  sun 
was  pouring  its  rays  blindingly  over  the  stream  misnamed  the  Plata, 
the  “ River  of  Silver,”  by  Sebastian  “ Gaboto  ” — who  was  none  other 
than  our  own  Sebastian  Cabot  — because  he  fancied  it  ran  uphill  to 
the  silver  mines  of  Peru.  The  Indians  called  it  the  Parana-Guazu, 

611 


VAGABONDING  DOWN  THE  ANDES 


the  “ River  Large  as  a Sea,”  a truer  name,  for  on  the  right  it  stretched 
away  to  the  dimmest  of  broken  land  forms,  and  soon  these,  too,  dis- 
appeared, and  a reddish-brown  sea  spread  unbroken  to  the  horizon. 
For  a time  we  hugged  the  Urguayan  shore,  then  swung  the  blazing  sun 
around  behind  us  and  struck  out  for  what,  but  for  its  color,  might 
have  been  the  open  sea.  Soon  we  began  to  pass  buoys  of  the  Argen- 
tine government,  marked  “ R.  A.  m.  o.  p.,”  with  the  kilometers  to  the 
end  of  my  journey  painted  upon  them.  Toward  eight,  where  the 
yellow  sea  and  the  bluish-gray  sky  met,  the  vast,  perfect  circle  of  the 
horizon  was  broken  by  a patch  of  faint  white.  It  was  only  a tiny 
narrow  line  down  at  the  extreme  edge  of  the  great  inverted  bowl  of 
sky  above  us,  yet  so  long  — several  inches,  in  fact  — that  should  it 
turn  out  to  be  a city,  as  I began  to  suspect,  since  we  were  headed 
directly  for  it,  it  would  be  a large  one  indeed.  Then  the  white  patch 
began  to  take  on  faint  individual  shape,  and  above  us  the  wireless  was 
spitting  its  message  to  the  yet  invisible  world  ahead.  An  hour  later 
we  were  in  the  midst  of  buoys,  large  and  small,  marking  the  “ Canal 
Sur,”  or  South  Channel.  Boats  and  steamers  appeared,  and  sailing 
vessels  spread  their  white  wings  across  the  yellow  waters  on  all  sides 
of  us,  while  the  city  stretched  along  the  horizon  ahead  had  turned  from 
white  to  gray,  with  a tint  of  red,  neither  color  nor  edifice  conspicuous, 
except  for  two  groups  of  huge  brick  smoke-stacks  belching  forth  into 
the  brilliant  sky.  Even  after  the  long  line  of  buildings  had  taken  on 
definite  form,  and  one  could  all  but  count  their  windows,  the  city 
seemed  still  to  sit  on  the  yellow  sea.  One  was  struck,  too,  by  the 
narrowness  of  the  strip ; the  buildings  seemed  for  the  most  part  a bare 
four  stories,  with  only  here  and  there  one  as  high  as  ten  cutting  into 
the  landless  sky-line.  Two  tugs  took  possession  of  us,  dragging  us  up 
a narrow  channel  through  a wilderness  of  shipping,  where  we  must 
soon  stop  for  lack  of  space,  until  we  spied  an  unoccupied  bit  of  wharf 
and  warped  gradually  into  it.  It  was  a late-summer  morning,  the 
ninth  of  March.  While  the  rest  waited  for  their  baggage  to  be  ex- 
amined, an  official  glanced  at  my  bundle,  jerked  a thumb  scornfully 
over  a shoulder,  and  I stepped  out  into  the  metropolitan  rumble  of  — 
no  wonder  gringo  residents  have  abbreviated  it  to  “ B.A.” — “ la 
Ciudad  y Puerto  de  Santa  Maria  de  los  Buenos  Aires.” 


THE  END 


612 


